Now, Would A Texan Lie?

Cecil Talley
 iii

CO N T EN T S
PA RT 1
THE DEER HUNTERS 1
Deputy Sheriff 3
The Haunted Cabin 5
Kidding Tom 10
The Mystery Milk 12
The Five-legged Grifter 16
One Man Concert 20
The Ugliest Man In The World 22
Not Available In Stores 24
Vile Bill Hiccup 26
The Strange Adventures of Tom Adler 29
Big Hail Storm 32
The Echo Tree 33
A Smart Mule 34
The Loch Ness Monster 37
The Courtship Of Floyd Jeffers 39
More About Dreams 44
Back To Doodlebug County 46
A Boy Called Thud 49
Debunking A Myth 52
A Solitary Grave 54
Eden Revisited 56
The Terrible Giant 58
The Panel 61
Twisting The Tale Of Mother Goose 63
A New Religion 67
The Mystery of the Raven Feather 69
The Starfish and the Oyster 72
Aunt Matilda 75
Uncle Skeetlepop 77
The Bloodhound 79
The Secret Door 81
The Thirteenth Notch 84
A Hobo Trip 86

PA RT 2
WILD OTIS 89
Meeting Otis 91
Smart Bass 102

PA RT 3
ASSORTED STORIES 133
The Farmer In The Well 135
The Orphans 140
His Last Joke 148
The Tree Cradle 153
Li’l Adam 156
The Recovered File 166
Paula’s Revenge 177
The Rearing Of Bobby Leek 184
The Dream 190
The Woman In The Park 201
A String Of Beads 209
 iv

PREFACE

In the early part of the 20th Century, prior to television or

even sophisticated radio programming, most rural Americans
amused themselves through a cultural tradition of telling stories
and by recounting humorous incidents such as harmless pranks.
Some were fictitious stories (tall tales). My father, Cecil Talley, was
raised on the Texas plains in this oral tradition and has written tall
tales in Part 1 of this book.

My most enduring memories of childhood are liberally sprin-

kled with Dad’s humor. Mom, Dad, my brother Louis and I would
frequently laugh after our evening meals until we cried as Dad re-
counted awkward situations and retold especially successful practi-
cal jokes he had heard about or witnessed. Thanks to him, I am
convinced that this ability to see humor in everyday life and to
laugh at ourselves is a wonderful safeguard of one’s sanity during
trying times.

The stories in Part 2 and especially Part 3 move the reader

from humor to some of life’s deeper issues and explore some of its
strange ironies. They reveal Dad’s talent as a writer of mystery sto-
ries such as The Farmer In The Well, included in Part 3, which was
published in the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine in 1980, an accom-
plishment of which our family is very proud.

If you are not a Texan or were born after 1940, I suggest you
try on a figurative pair of cowboy boots from a bygone era and
watch for a slight wink from Cecil Talley as he tells you his stories
and asks, "Now, would a Texan lie?"

Gene Talley
 1

PA RT 1

T H E D EER H U N T ERS
 3

D ep u t y Sh er i f f

Old Tom Adler's dour expression belied his affable nature and
his sense of absurd humor. He drew himself a little closer to the
ancient wood-burning cook stove and spat an amber stream into a
tin can as a sort of prologue to the tall tales session.
Tom was the cook for the group of deer hunters. He was too
crippled with arthritis to do much hunting, and his cooking was just
fair, but he was a likable old cuss, and the other hunters loved his
yarns. They had leased hunting rights in Mason County, Texas, and
were staying in a ramshackle shack on the ranch. Hunting season
was to open the following morning. The weather had turned rather
cold, and after sweeping out bird and rat droppings and other de-
bris, they had got a fire going and sat around it to swap lies and
friendly insults. Tom led off.
"A gang of outlaws had set up camp a few miles out of town,"
he began. "There was about thirty in the gang, and they was a
bunch of mean sum-na-bitches, I tell you! I mean they took over the
town. Me and Sheriff Bicflicker was the only lawmen in Doodlebug
County, and none of the men in town wanted to be deputized. The
outlaws would come in and rob and beat up the men, rape the
wimmen, and do all kinds of mischief. Then they would ride their
horses back out to their camp, no doubt laughing at the gutless
geeks who called themselves men.
"All this robbing and raping went on for several weeks. Then
when the thugs started cussing in front of the wimmen and spitting
on the sidewalks, I sez to the sheriff, 'Enough is enough. I'm gonna
go out there and have it out with them bastards once and for all.'
"'You better give that idea a second thought,' Bicflicker
warned. 'Them boys ain't gonna play no games with you.
 4

They are likely as not to shoot you and hang you and even
call you a dad-gum-son-of-a-gun.'
"'A chance I'll jist have to take,' I sez. 'I've had it
with them buzzards. Nobody spits on the sidewalk in this
here town and gets away with it.'
"So I saddle up Ol' Skunkrump, my mule, and ride out to the
outlaw camp. I'll have to admit I was a little uneasy. Fact is, I was
more than uneasy. I was nervous as a banty rooster in a strange
barnyard, and the closer I got to the camp the uneasier I became.
Maybe the sheriff was right. Maybe they would actually call me a
dad-gum-son-of-a-gun. But I was stubborn and rode on in.
"They seen me coming and lined up, all grinning and looking
mean. I never claimed to be no hero, and I was scared. Even my
mule was scared. When I got within hollering distance, Snake Fang,
their leader, yelled at me, 'All right, Deputy, jist turn that there
jackass around and head back to town, and you won't get hurt.'
"I ain't very smart, but I know when I'm licked, so I started
to do like he said, feeling low as a lizard's belly button. The out-
laws all started laughing and jeering, but I kept right on heading
back toward town. Then Snake Fang hollered something that stung
me and made me so dang mad I forgot to be scared. He yelled,
'And don't come back, you dad-gum-son-of-a-gun!'
"That done it! I turned Ol' Skunk Rump around again and rode
right in amongst 'em. I dismounted and walked right up to Snake
Fang, looking him straight in the eye. 'Shame on you, you bad guys,'
I sez.
"They all hung their heads and started sniffling and blubbering
and shedding tears big as mule turds. Later I heard the gang dis-
banded and Snake Fang became a Baptist preacher. Then he retired
and wrote a book
 5

T h e H au n t ed Cab i n

"How about throwing some chow together, Tom?" suggested

Rex Kimball. "I'm hungry."
"I second the motion," said Bill Stasey.
"Okay," Tom agreed, "but you're gonna have to give me some
room. You boys are crowding around that stove like 'possums
around a dead sheep."
"Cap," said Rex, "didn't you live in Arkansas when you were a
kid? What did you do for kicks? I mean other than hunt 'possums
and chase your sisters?" Cap Thomas was a gaunt man in his fifties
and had been brought up by foster parents, having known neither
his father nor his mother. As a soldier, he had rescued a child from
a burning hut in Viet Nam and had sustained severe burns over
much of his body. His face was severely scarred, giving him a gro-
tesque appearance but not affecting his sense of humor.
"Glad you asked," he said. Following is his yarn:

Me and Jasper Carbuncle growed up together back in Peagoo-

ber, Arkansas, and when we was kids we spent a lot of time down
on the creek or just rambling through the woods. Sometimes we
would knock wasp nests out of trees.
Jasper had a kind of scientific mind and liked to do a lot of
experimenting. Some of our experiments had to do with insects
with milder tempers than wasps have. If they did get mad at us they
didn't have the equipment to fight back like wasps do. We used a
lot of bugs of one kind or another in our little projects. Maybe y'all
 6

never heard of a June bug, but it is a big beetle that likes to fly
more than crawl.
We would catch some and tie strings to their hind legs and let
them fly like little balloons while we held the ends of the strings.
Then sometimes we would clip their wings a little at a time to see
how short the wings had to be before they couldn't fly no more.
Other times we would catch big black bugs that lived in holes
in the ground and pull off their legs on one side and watch them go
around in circles. All this, mind you, was in the interest of science.
We wanted to measure their degree of intelligence by seeing if they
could figure out a way to get back into their holes in the ground.
Years later we talked about this and agreed it was a cruel
thing to do. I mean, that's just no way to treat a bug. Heck, if you're
gonna pull half the legs off a bug, the least you can do is guide it
back in its hole.
When Jasper got out of high school he developed a warped
mind and went on to college. I never could understand his twisted
way of thinking. The way I see it, the more you study, the more you
learn. The more you learn, the more you know. The more you
know, the more you forget. And the more you forget, the less you
know. Just a dad-gum waste of time.
But Jasper was hardheaded and wouldn't listen to my sound
advice. Now the pore old guy is stuck with a big fine house in Bev-
erly Hills and three expensive cars. I think he also bought himself a
big luxury yacht, and now he can't keep up with all the beautiful
women hanging around begging for dates. That would drive me
crazy.
I think all that education screwed up his mind even more than
that. He got so he didn't even believe in ghosts no more. One time
when he was in his second or third year of college he came home
on vacation, and I happened to mention a haunted house up in the
mountains of the north woods. The north woods was about ten
miles north of where we lived.
They say if you stay in the old deserted cabin at night a ghost
will appear and remind you of all your sins before turning you into
a termite and setting you down on a petrified log in Arizona. I told
that to Jasper, and he actually accused me of being gullible for be-
lieving it. He even said I was superstitious. Can you imagine any-
body dumb enough to doubt that there is any such thing as a ghost?
He even went so far as to declare that education and enlight-
enment are the direct opposites of superstitious beliefs. Boy, he had
 7

really gone off his rocker! Like a know-it-all he started giving me a

lecture about people who believe in ghosts.
"Ghosts," he said, "exist only in caliginous minds because of
fear and the ignorance of the laws of nature."
Now that was a real revelation to me. I mean, I just hadn't re-
alized my mind was caliginous.
"When one becomes cognizant of the immutable laws that
govern the universe," he went on, "he also becomes aware that all
phenomena, no matter how seemingly contrary to those laws, actu-
ally are explainable in terms in perfect harmony with said laws, al-
though the logical explanation thereof may not be readily apparent.
The point is that every occurrence has a perfectly plausible and
logical explanation and is the result of natural law in operation.
Otherwise it would be totally impossible."
He sort of had me going there, and I had to agree. "Yeah, and
if it is totally impossible," I said, "it probably won't happen." Which
proves that just because he had some education didn't mean he
could out logic me.
"Exactly," he sez. "I'm gratified that you now realize that
ghosts are merely figments of ignorant people's fertile imagina-
tions."
"Hold on there," I sez. "Just a dad-gum minute. I don't realize
no sich a thing. Who is to say that ghosts ain't one of them there
phenomenas that ain't readily apparent?"
"Don't be absurd, Cap," Jasper sez. "If there were ghosts, they
would be manifestations of the supernatural. Otherwise they would
not be ghosts, and as we have seen, the supernatural simply does
not exist."
"Just the same," I sez, "I wouldn't want to spend a night up
there in that cabin."
Like I said, Jasper can be kind of hard headed. "I would not be
apprehensive in the least. If there is danger there it is most assur-
edly not due to dead people. It's the live ones that pose a threat."
"Okay, O Wise One," I sez. "If you ain't a-skeered suppose you
just mosey up there and spend the night."
"If I do spend the night there and no misfortune befalls me,
will you believe me?"
"Sure, unless you are turned into a termite and won't admit
it."
"Now, Cap," he sez with just a hint of a sneer, "can't you see
just how absurd that is? Why don't you marshal your courage and
accompany me?"
 8

"Well," I sez, "now that you put it that way, I'll do even better
than that. I'll go with you."
So we put a few supplies together and hiked up to that there
shack in the mountains. We got there about an hour before dark
and gathered some dry wood for the old fireplace. The cabin had
not been lived in since Mother Nature was a virgin, and spider webs
hung from the beams and rafters. Now, I know some people call 'em
cobwebs, but I ain't never seen a cob spin a web. Anyhow, pack rats
had got in there and left their sticks and litter in the corners of the
room.
We cleaned up the place a little bit and got a fire going so we
could brew our tea and keep warm while we et our sandwiches.
Then we spread our sleeping bags on the floor and just sat there
munching; sipping and talking about ghosts that don't exist.
"I hope this little adventure will lay to rest forever your Stone
Age notions," Jasper sez. "I think it's high time you discard all those
primitive concepts and emerge into the enlightened age of science
and civilization."
"Yeah--uh--yes, I reckon--uh--suppose you are correct," I sez--
uh--responded, showing him that I can also use words of culture
and refinement.
We went on talking about how there ain't no--I mean how
ghosts do not exist except in caliginous minds. We talked so long
about it that I was beginning to believe some of it myself. Then the
fire died down and it commenced to get dark and cold, so we de-
cided to turn in for the night.
We cocooned ourselves in our sleeping bags, and pretty soon
we was snoring. I ain't saying we was sleeping, just snoring. Maybe
Jasper really was asleep. I don't know. Me, I was putting on a little
act. Every time I told my body to relax, some part of it would say,
"Hey, you relax. I'm standing guard."
Along about what I figured was close to midnight, I began get-
ting drowsy and dang near dozed off in spite of myself. That's when
I seen this eerie glow moving around in the room. It was just a
green light floating around in the pitch dark. Visions of black bugs
with half of their legs pulled off flashed through my caliginous
mind. I didn't give it much thought at the time, the time being
about a tenth of a second. I mean, how much thought can you give
anything in a tenth of a second when running thirty miles an hour
up a steep hill and zipped up in a sleeping bag? And as if that wasn't
bad enough, I kept bumping into Jasper.
 9

A couple of days later I got to thinking we ought to go back

up there some bright sunny day and fix them two big holes we had
made in the wall when we left in a kind of a hurry. I mentioned it to
Jasper, and he mulled it over for a tenth of a second and said no.
He made me swear with my hand placed on a stack of ghost
stories that I would never open my yap to a soul about the caper,
but I didn't say nothing about not telling it to people. Anyhow, I'm
just a natural born blabbermouth and never could be trusted to
keep a secret.
 10

Ki d d i n g Tom

"Soup's on!" yelled Tom. The bunch gathered around a make-

shift table to eat. They began with a salad.
"Hey, Tom, what the hell is in this salad dressing?" Rex de-
manded after he had taken a bite.
"My secret recipe. Made it myself. Don't you like it?"
"Let me guess. Tastes like mesquite beans, tumble weeds,
cockleburs and maybe a little horse manure thrown in."
"Damn!" swore Tom. "There goes my secret. The horse shit is
to lend it tang and zest."
"It accomplishes the first part admirably," commented Kent
Sheridan, "but I'm not so sure about the second part. Not too bad.
However, I think it might be an island or two shy."
Bill Stasey buttered a slice of bread and took a bite. "Is this
real butter, Tom?"
"Yep, shore is," Tom replied. "Pure dee ol' salve straight from
the cow."
Bill took another bite and puckered his lips as if tasting a fine
wine. "I can't believe it's not margarine that tastes like butter."
Mack Rogers took a bite of bread and slapped his jaw. "Is this
stone ground wheat bread, Tom?"
"Yeah," Tom said suspiciously.
"Thought so. It must have more stone in it than wheat. I think
I just broke a tooth."
The old man fixed him with a stare. "You're supposed to spit
out the rocks, dummy. Do you chew up the pits when you eat cher-
ries?"
Mack appealed to the others. "Now he tells me."
Tom was completely bald, and Bill, whose head was adorned
with a luxuriant mass of blonde hair, delighted in kidding him about
 11

his baldness as well as anything else that came to mind. In fact, the
entire group tried to give him a bad time in a good-natured way
with their needling. The old man usually came out on top with his
retorts, but they kept trying.
Tom kept things lively with his absurd yarns and antics. He
took a comb from his shirt pocket and pretended to comb hair that
had vanished from his head so long ago that he could hardly re-
member it. He struggled with phantom tangles to the amusement of
his fellow hunters.
Bill looked at the others and said, "I've read that women go
ape over baldheaded men. I wonder if Tom knows how many girl-
friends he has. I'll bet they try to beat his door down to get to him."
"Yeah, you know it," Tom replied. "They'll take an old baldy
over a thick-headed youngster every time. Actually, I keep my hair
rubbed off on strange bedposts."
 12

T h e M y st er y M i l k

"A lot of people don't believe me when I tell this," Ray Savage
ventured.
"Can't imagine that," Kent Sheridan said, poker faced.
"This happened about five years ago," Ray continued, "right
after Ruth and I were divorced. I was a dedicated believer in the
American principle of life, liberty and the happiness of pursuit, and
that philosophy is not exactly conducive to a stable marriage."
"Me and Floyd are the same way," Tom declared. "We both
still pursue. That ain't saying we catch. The difference between us is
that he still remembers what it's all about."
"As most of you know," Ray continued, "she got the kids and
the house, and I felt kind of lost and didn't know what to do with
myself. Some guys take to booze after something like that, but not
me. I decided to bury my misery with adventure, the wilder the bet-
ter. I would sail alone around the world, and I didn't much care
what might happen to me.
"Let me say at this point that I used to drink lots of milk, but
now I can't stand the stuff. You'll know why later.
"I drove to California, sold my car, and bought a sixteen foot
open sail boat. After stowing supplies and plotting my course, I set
sail for Australia. I don't think I would have made it there even had
I allowed for continental drift, which I forgot to do.
"I set sail from San Pedro bright and early on a clear day in
May. I planned to stop off in Hawaii, but I missed because my com-
pass went on the blink the second day out. I ran into a dense fog
that blotted out the sun. That's when the compass began going
haywire. Sometimes it would point west, then maybe east or south
or somewhere in between. I was so disgusted with the thing that I
threw it overboard.
"The fog lifted and for days on end I sailed, navigating by the
stars at night. Let me tell you now that the stars are unreliable as a
guide for navigation. Even Polaris, the North Star, would shift
 13

around. Then I guess I must have got into the doldrums, the wind-
less condition like in the Ancient Mariner.
"I lost all track of time, drifting this way and that, not know-
ing where I was. My supplies gave out, and I had neither food to eat
nor water to drink. I began to hallucinate. Mermaids started getting
into the boat with me, but I threw them all out. I was in no mood
for lovemaking. I wouldn't have known how to go about it with a
mermaid, anyway.
"I don't know how long I was unconscious, but the next thing I
knew, cool water was being poured on my head. I opened my eyes
to look into the fierce faces of two savages. They were talking in a
language I couldn't understand, but I guess they could. They seemed
to be arguing about something. I hoped it wasn't about which one
was going to get my liver.
"They were almost naked and all painted up with weird de-
signs all over their bodies. Finally they sat me under a big shade
tree and gave me all the milk I could drink. When my wrinkled eye-
balls finally smoothed out, I looked around the area. Evidently I was
on some tropical island.
"The two savages laid me on a crude stretcher, and after
blindfolding me, started carrying me up a steep hill or mountain.
The grade was so steep that I kept sliding down and had to brace
my feet against the lower guy's face. I had no way of keeping track
of time, but it seemed like we climbed for hours.
"Then at last we leveled off, and soon I could tell that we had
entered some kind of building. My escorts removed the blindfold,
locked all the doors, and left me alone. I found myself in a large
room with a high ceiling. The floor was covered with thick, luxuri-
ous carpets, and a strange but expensive looking couch sat in a
corner. I sat on it and waited.
"After about ten minutes a large arched door opened, and a
man in a long brown robe entered. He was a white man. He came
over and peered intently into my face. Then he broke into a smile,
and to my astonishment, spoke to me in English, calling me by
name.
"All I could do was gulp and stammer, 'How did you learn my
name?' The savages had not taken my wallet. When his amused
smile turned into a wide grin, I knew I had seen him somewhere be-
fore, but I had no idea where.
"Finally, after he had enjoyed my consternation, he said, 'Do
you remember a little redheaded kid in grammar school who was
always blowing the bejeebers out of a harmonica?'
 14

"'Larry Newman! What in tarnation are you doing in this God-

forsaken jungle? And what's with the get-up?'
"'I'm a priest,' he stated.
"'The devil, you say! Forget I said that. I mean, I always knew
you were a cousin to a monkey, but I never dreamed you would be-
come a monk.'
"'Not a monk. I'm a priest. There are twelve of us on this vol-
canic island. How and why I got here and became a priest is a long
story, and I won't go into details. The others claim to be of one of
the lost tribes of Israel, the Tribe of Levi, to be exact. Now, as far as
I'm concerned, claiming to be a member of a lost tribe of Israel is
like claiming to be a brother of the Unknown Soldier, but I didn't
argue the matter with them. We are the only whites on the island.
They finally decided to make me a priest when I told them I'm Jew-
ish, which of course I am.'
"'Why was I blindfolded?'
"'A precaution. This island is virtually unknown to the outside
world, and we want to keep it that way for reasons I won't divulge.
By the way, are you hungry?'
"'Am I hungry? Is there ice at the North Pole? I could eat a
horse, but I'm hoping for something different. I'm also thirsty. It
will probably take me a week to regain all the water I lost.'
"Priest Larry Newman rang a bell, and a shapely young native
woman came in and stood at attention. He spoke something to her
in a strange, tonal tongue, and she disappeared. Soon she was back
with a tray of food and a large pitcher of milk. After placing them
on a table she silently left. Her walk was graceful--the curves and
bounces in all the right places.
"'When I was first ordained,' Larry confided, 'no females were
allowed here in the temple. I soon changed that rule, and now the
others wouldn't have it any other way.' He winked. 'We do not so-
cialize with the natives--except for a few choice women.' Again he
winked. 'Oh, by the way, how do you like the milk? I won't tell you
what kind it is, but I will tell you it did not come from cows.'
"'No? You don't have cows here?'
"'The soil here will not grow enough feed to support cows, so
we get our milk from a different source.'
"'Why won't you tell me?'
"'If you knew what kind it is, you might refuse to drink it, but
I assure you it is perfectly wholesome. I have to leave you for a
while now. If you want anything else, just ring that bell, and Naomi
will take care of all your needs.' With another wink he left.
 15

"I kind of worried about the milk, but I had a whale of a

thirst, and evidently the water was not fit to drink. So I drank milk.
Then I drank milk. I kept drinking milk, all the time wondering what
kind of mammal it came from. I had noticed a lot of dogs in the na-
tive village before I was blindfolded. The son-of-a-gun wouldn't ---
"After about ten days, I regained my strength and told New-
man I was ready to sail on. When I had been seeing things in the
boat, I had about decided sailing around the world in an open boat
was a bum idea, but now I felt good and ready to push on.
"'Okay, but I'll have to blindfold you again until you get off
the mountain. No offense, but we simply cannot take a chance of
having this temple known to the outside world. I hope you under-
stand.'
"'All right, pal,' I said, 'but do me a favor before I leave. Tell
me what kind of milk I've been drinking.'
"'I'll do better than that. When we get down, I'll show you
through the dairy.'
"'Here we are,' he said after the descent. Then he removed the
blindfold, and we proceeded toward the dairy barn set back a way
in the jungle. We passed several woman on the path, all of whom
had ----- large bare breasts."
"So that's the kind of milk you had been drinking," Rex said,
not as a question but as a statement.
"Nope."
"No? Then what was in the dairy barn?"
"Goats."
 16

T h e Fi v e- l eg g ed Gr i f t er

"Let me tell y'all about a dog I owned when I lived on a farm

near Brownfield up on the plains," Floyd Jeffers said.
Jeffers was almost as old as Tom Adler, but unlike Tom, he
was in excellent physical condition.
"I was fifteen when my dad found him abandoned. Somebody
had left him in our front yard. He must not have been more than a
day old. He growed so big that we had to keep him in the barn with
the horses."
"How much did he weigh--honestly?" Rex asked.
"Okay, honestly, including the fleas, I'd say he weighed about
ninety pounds."
"That isn't so big. Lots of dogs weigh that much."
"But this was when he was a day old puppy. After he growed
up his shadow weighed more than that."
"Yeah, right. What kind of dog was he?"
"Don't know for sure, but he looked like a mixture of Great
Dane and Chihuahua."
The others hooted in derision.
"True love can always find a way. Anyhow, when he growed up
he was the fastest dog in the whole country, so he might have had a
little cheetah in him, too. He was the only dog I ever seen that could
cause a sonic boom when he went full out. He used to catch my
bullets when I would shoot at something and change my mind about
killing it. One day he was chasing a five-legged grifter when he spied
a telephone pole and stopped so sudden he lost all his hair."
"Wait a minute," Kent Sheridan interrupted. "He was chasing a
what?"
"A five-legged grifter."
"Never heard of it."
 17

"Not many people have. It ain't native here. A wealthy rancher

had some of 'em transportated here from some place in Asia and
turned 'em loose on the plains to breed and prolifigate. It is an
animal about the size of a red fox; only it has three eyes and five
legs. The fifth leg grows where the tail normally is. The grifter don't
carry it pointing back like most animals. He carries it between his
other legs and points it forward. It sticks out past his head about
ten feet. It has a foot on it like his other legs, and when he is run-
ning and comes to a bobwire fence, he uses it like a vaulting pole.
"Like I say, I used to chase them with Ol' Hump, my dog.
Hump never did catch one, because he never learned to jump over
a bobwire fence, and the grifter would always head for one and
vault over it. This let the grifter get away while Hump was crawling
under the fence."
"Look, Floyd," Rex cut in, "if that dog was so big, how could he
crawl under a fence?"
"Well, hell, we built big fences. Anyway, people would come
from miles around, even foreigners from other states, just to get a
look at the dog."
"What ever happened to him?"
"We had to get rid of him. He was just too dang big to feed.
We sold him to Ringling Brothers, and he proved too big for them,
too. He kept things in an uproar. He fell in love with one of the fe-
male elephants, but she wouldn't have nothing to do with him, and
he died of stoneache."
 18

A Go l d - sm el l i n g Bu r r o

"I've heard that up on the plains there are little owls that live
in holes in the ground," Rex said. "I never really believed it. Every-
body knows owls live in trees and barns. Floyd, you lived up there.
What do you say?"
"Some call 'em burrowing owls. They live in abandoned prai-
rie dog holes. We called 'em dog owls."
"You think that's strange?" said old Tom Adler. "In Montana
there is a herd of wild burros that live under ground."
Rex snorted. "Sure, and they also have claws for digging the
holes."
Tom gave him a sour look. "I didn't say they dig the holes.
They live in a cave. The cowboys call it the 'Ass Hole'.
"And speaking of burros, I once had one that could smell
gold. I was prospecting in California and struck it rich. The burro's
name was Warlock, and every time he smelled gold he would come
to a point like a bird dog. I had to break him of that habit, though.
It was okay as long as we was out in the desert, but when we would
come into town, it could be embarrassing because the son-of-a-gun
would walk up to a lady wearing gold rings or bracelets, give her a
sniff, and come to a point. One lady threatened to sue me for inva-
sion of her privacy. I ain't sure what she thought I had the burro
trained to detect about her.
"I didn't have to do no digging to find the gold. We would go
to old abandoned gold mines and go through the tailings. The old
prospectors throwed away a lot of rocks that was rich in ore be-
cause they couldn't see the gold inside the rocks. All I had to do
was hold a rock up to Warlock's nose, and if it contained gold he
would wiggle his ears, but if there wasn't no gold he would swish his
tail.
 19

"One day we found a mine that had a lot of rich rocks, and I
loaded him down and started back to town, but we got lost out
there in the hot desert and dang near died. I mean it was hot. We
would travel at night and rest in the daytime. The moon out there
was hotter than the sun is here. The temperature stayed around a
hundred and thirty even with the wind chill factor, and there wasn't
no wind, and shore as hell, there wasn't no chill.
"We ran out of water, and I was about ready to die. Believe me,
it ain't no fun when you're dying of thirst, looking at a shimmering
landscape and a lake of water that ain't there. Even Ol' Warlock got
so weak I had to dump most of the load of gold ore. Every time I
would try to lead him one way, he would try to go another. Finally,
after plodding up and down dry washes and across stretches of hot
sand, I gave up and let him have his way. He led me straight back to
town."
Rex held up a forefinger. "One question, Tom. How far were
you from town?"
"About fifty miles."
"And you and the burro were already nearly dead from thirst
before you decided to let him lead the way?"
"That's two questions."
"Okay, two or three questions. You were about fifty miles
from the nearest water?"
"Right."
"How in the world did you ever manage to walk that far in
such a weakened condition?"
"Did I say we walked? We hitched a ride with a kid on a tricy-
cle."
"Oh, I see. Well, that clears that up. What became of the
burro?"
"I don't think I want to tell you that. I'm too ashamed. What I
done is despeakable and downright unspicable."
"What did you do, let him starve to death?"
"No. I lost my ass in a poker game."
 20

On e M an Co n c er t

"Did you bring your harmonica?" Rex Kimball directed the

question to James Batwood, dubbed "Ash" by his buddies. He was a
man in his early twenties and still bothered by acne.
"I'd sooner leave my rifle home. What would you like to
hear?" He withdrew the instrument from his coat pocket.
"I didn't say I wanted to hear you play. I was just hoping you
had forgot to bring it."
Ash looked a little crestfallen and started to put the harmon-
ica back in his pocket.
"Now that wasn't very nice," Cap Thomas said. "Play for us,
Ash. Rex forgot to bring his manners.
"Hey, I was only kidding," Rex said. "Actually, your music
sounds better than Tom's snoring, and I just love to hear him snore.
Do you know any of Stephen C. Foster's songs? How about the piece
about the little girl with the pet rabbit?"
Ash seemed a little puzzled. "I don't think I ever heard that
one. Are you sure Foster wrote it?"
"Sure you do. Everybody knows Jeanie With The Light Brown
Hare. Then there's the one about a house rodent that got caught in
a coffee grinder. It's called Mouse Is In The Cold, Cold Grounds.
"There's got to be one in every crowd," said Cap. "Play what-
ever you want to, Ash."
"Well, if y'all really want me to. I know I'm not very good. I
used to think I was, but something happened one time that kinda
brought me down to earth."
"What was that?" Rex asked in a sort of apology after realizing
he might have offended the young man by his kidding.
"People used to compliment me on my playing. Now I realize
they were just being polite to make me feel good. Friends, at least
some of them, will do that, but strangers can be a little more frank.
Like the time when I rented a small concert hall. I really thought I
was that good.
 21

"I sold a bunch of tickets, and about twenty people showed up

to hear me play. It was a one-man concert, and after the first num-
ber about half the people left. I felt a little let down, hurt in fact,
but I kept on playing.
"One of the pieces I played was My Old Kentucky Home. An
old fellow in the front row began crying. I mean he was sobbing
something awful. Well, I thought, somebody appreciates my music.
When I finished the piece, I thought it might add something to the
show if I talked to him. 'Sir,' I said, 'evidently you have been moved
deeply. Tell me, are you from Kentucky?' 'No, I'm a musician,' he
growled, and stalked out, and most of the others followed. Only one
old couple remained.
"That really shook me up, but I figured I was obligated to con-
tinue as long as one or two paying patrons stayed. I played about
ten or twelve more numbers and paused to get my breath.
"I was feeling a little better until the man stood up and said,
'Now, kid, if you're through blowing on that damn thing, we've got
this place to clean up.'"
 22

T h e U g l i est M an I n T h e W o r l d

"You know, Tom," Cap Thomas said during a lull just to get
things going again, "you're dang near as ugly as I am. You'd be bet-
ter looking if you wasn't so ugly."
"Can't argue with that kind of logic," Tom replied. "It's in my
genes. When I was a kid Grandpa told me there was a gorilla in our
ancestry a couple of generations back. One of my uncles had
thumbs on his feet and lived in a tree. He wore baseball gloves for
shoes. I guess I look a little like he did."
"We may be the ugliest men in Texas," Cap said, "but I had a
friend by the name of Fimbledoop Lopskink who was even uglier.
His looks would sour milk. It was the result of a hunting accident.
He was handsome before the armydillers messed him up."
"What are armydillers?" Rex asked.
"I think he means armadillos," Bill Stasey explained. "Actually,
they are harmless creatures."
Cap glared at Bill. "Not them we was hunting' up in Alaska."
"Now, now, Cap. There are no armadillos in Alaska."
"Not now there ain't. Me and Fimbledoop killed 'em all. He
was attackted by a whole army of armydillers, and before we could
shoot all the critters, they messed up his face so bad even his mama
wouldn't have nothin' to do with him no more. In them days mules
and wagons did most of the hauling. I lost track of all the runaways
his looks caused. He took it real hard, because he had always been
a ladies' man, and now they all would detour two blocks out of
their way to avoid meeting him on the street. One pregnant woman
saw him and lost her baby on the spot. I bet if he lived here now,
some abortion clinic would hire him. He was so ugly a moose tried
to make love to him.
 23

"His mouth was so twisted out of shape that when he would

spit, the 'bakker juice would land on his butt. Even the plastered
surgeons couldn't help him none. I lost track of him for about ten
years. I felt kind of responsible for the pore devil, because the hunt
had been my idea, and I kept thinking about how I could help him.
"Then one day it hit me. I was sure the plan would work and
restore his good looks, so I hired a detective to track him down. He
was living with burros in a cave out in the mountains of Montana,
and I went to see him. I'm happy to report the man got his good
looks back and finally married into English royalty. I think he wrote
a book about it.
Here Cap paused and lit a cigarette with a splinter from a
piece of kindling.
"Okay," Rex said, "how did you restore his looks?"
"Real simple. I taught him how to tell a lie with a straight
face."
 24

N o t A v ai l ab l e I n St o r es

"Did I ever tell y'all about the time I quit my job as president
of National Caster Bean and Okra Growers of America and became
an inventor?" Tom looked at each man around the table.
"What did you invent?" asked Rex.
"Lots of stuff, but my pride and joy was the Adler Flashdark."
"Flashdark?"
"Yeah. Worked just like a flashlight, only instead of sending
out a beam of light, it sent out a beam of dark. It was real handy for
aiming at things you don't want to see, like your mother-in-law or a
notice from IRS. I was real proud of it, but it never caught on with
the public. People kept stubbing their toes on their way to the out-
house.
"Then there was another invention that I spent two years de-
veloping. It was a remote control for zippers. Another flop, but I
wasn't discouraged. I mean inventing is like writing. You keep at it
long enough, somebody will buy it.
"The next one had a lot of potential, I thought, but folks are
hard to please and don't know a good thing when they see it. It was
a chemical for spraying in your freezer to keep out ice worms.
"The silencer for boom boxes I was sure couldn't miss. Parents
liked the idea, but their kids didn't go for it. Besides, you could buy
a sledgehammer for less money at any hardware store.”
"I guess you were just way ahead of the times," Rex consoled.
“I once knew a genius who invented a dream catcher. As y’all know,
sounds are vibrations. Edison knew that and reasoned that if one
could capture the vibrations by some means, he could reproduce
the sounds. Thus the graphophone was invented. My friend won-
dered if the same principle could be applied to sight. Since the
 25

brain operates on electrical currents, he conceived the idea that

capturing those currents just might enable one to project on a
screen the images that a person was seeing.
“So he went to work in his well equipped lab and succeeded in
making such a device. By placing the sensors on a person’s head
and showing said person a coin, he projected the image of the coin
in clear detail on a screen. Whatever the subject was seeing, that’s
what would appear on the screen.
“He decided to see if it would work with dreams, and so he
tested it on his wife one night. What he saw on the screen the next
morning so infuriated him that he threatened to divorce her. That
in turn enraged his wife, and she smashed the machine to smither-
eens with a hammer and burned all the diagrams and notations. He
didn’t want to bother with making another, and so that was the end
of the dream catcher.”
"Tom,” Bill said, “You mentioned writing. I understand you did
some writing in your younger days. Did you write fiction?"
"Yeah, I took a whack at it when I was in high school. I submit-
ted a novel to two different publishers. Both rejected it, but both
wrote me a personal letter. One editor complained that my manu-
script had stunk up his slush pile. The other one made a suggestion
for improving the story, but I had never heard of a shredder.
"When I was twelve and living in a shack on the edge of a
swamp I wrote a manuscript that was supposed to be nonfiction. I
scribbled it on a school tablet. It was a brilliant piece on modern
home decorating."
"Did you ever get it published?"
"I ran into a little problem there, but I'm still trying. I've just
sent it to Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. My hopes are real high."
 26

V i l e Bi l l H i c c u p

Cap Thomas was sitting across the table from Tom. He peeled
an orange after he had finished his supper, and when he broke it
into sections some juice squirted out and hit Tom squarely in his
left eye. The acid stung, and tears streamed down his leathery
cheek.
"What's the matter, Tom?" Cap deadpanned, "did you get
something in your eye?"
"No," Tom deadpanned right back. "I'm crying because I just
thought of a sad story."
"How come you're not shedding tears from both eyes?"
"The story ain't that sad. I hope your aim with a rifle is bet-
ter."
Rex grinned. "Heck, I thought his aim was perfect."
"It breaks me up to see an old man cry," Cap said as he emp-
tied onions from a gunnysack. "Here, Tom, let me dry your tears."
"Go wipe your butt with it," Tom retorted. "You stink worse'n
a buzzard with a bellyache."
"It's your bad cooking'. It would give a buzzard a bellyache."
"That wasn't my cooking' you just et. You filled your plate
with the rat dropping’s we swept up off the floor, mistaking 'em for
my beans."
"I had some of the beans, too, but I couldn't tell the differ-
ence."
"All that bathtub gin you guzzled during Pro'bition messed up
your taste buds. Too bad you never seen fit to put that bathtub to
its proper use.
"Speaking of a bad aim," he continued, "reminds me of a
friend I hunted doves with on the Colorado River near Yuma, Ari-
zona, back in '50."
"Was that during the California Gold Rush, Tom?"
 27

"Nope. Me and you was in jail together in Santa Fe back then.

Remember?"
"What was we in jail for? I forget."
"For shooting' sheep herders without a license."
"Okay, so your dove shoot was in September, NINETEEN fifty--
unless you was hunting out of season."
"Yeah. Vile Bill Hiccup was a super salesman and a super con
man. He could sell a king his own castle. I know for a fact he sold
the Taj Mahal twice --- to the same guy. He could have got rich go-
ing straight, but he said he enjoyed the challenge of selling folks
things they don't need. Actually, he wasn't really vile. His heart was
as tender as a dove's funnybone. You could leave your diamond ring
on the dining table while you went to a movie, and he wouldn't
touch it, but if there was a game of wits involved, he would cheat
you out of your false teeth. One time he organized a group of
women for the noble purpose of the care and feeding of orphaned
alligators, bullfrogs and Loch Ness monsters.
"They raised a lot of money, and Bill took off with it. They
hired a detective to track him down and bring him back, and then
he sweet-talked them into electing him treasurer. Vile Bill was a real
snappy dresser and a happy-go-lucky kind of dude, and nobody
could stay mad at him long. A lot of times he would get throwed in
jail for some of his shenanigans but would be out in less than an
hour with the judge calling him 'Son'. He wrote a book about his
life titled I Want To Sell You."
"What did Vile Bill look like?" Rex asked. "Was he young and
handsome?"
"Yeah, he looked just like Martin Gainsworth."
"Who?"
"Martin Gainsworth."
"Who's he?"
"I don't know. Never heard of him. Anyhow, Hiccup never
wanted to see nothin' get hurt. One time when he was at my house
and saw a mouse that had been caught in a trap, he cried like the
squirrel that discovered he had married a skunk by mistake.
"After a year of coaxing I finally talked him into going dove
hunting with me. He had never touched a shotgun and couldn't hit
the side of a barn from inside with all the doors closed. We was
pass shooting, that is, standing in a field and shooting them as they
flew over. I got my limit in less than an hour, but Bill shot up six
boxes of shells without touching a feather. Then after shooting his
 28

last round, he picked up a rock and knocked one out of the air, and
it came fluttering to the ground.
"I walked over with him to pick it up. We both swore right
then and there that we would never shoot another dove if we lived
to be as old as you and George Burns. The bird was mortally
wounded and with its last gasp said, 'Please notify my mother.'"
"What happened to Vile Bill Hiccup? Is he still conning peo-
ple?" Rex asked.
"I reckon so. He conned one too many women, and she done
him in with a snub nose thirty-eight. Now he's prob'ly selling hand
warmers down in the nether reejins."
 29

T h e St r an g e A d v en t u r es o f T o m A d l er

"Tom," said Rex, "you've been to a lot of wild places in your

time. What are some of the wilder places you've been to?"
"Some of the wildest places in the world are right next door,
so to speak -- in Mexico."
"I understand you even did some spelunking in your younger
days. Is that right?"
"Yeah, I did. Crawling around in some of them small caves and
scraping your belly button on rocks and scorpions can get right in-
teresting. Some of 'em are pretty spooky, too. I mean like cold and
twice as quiet as total silence. I could even hear the tequila coursing
through my veins."
"Were you alone down there?"
"No, I had a clean-cut young feller by the name of Sniffletoe
Whangstoot with me. I met him when we was both Oxford students.
He knowed ever'thang about lots of stuff."
"Did you drink the water in Mexico?"
"Whang warned me against it, but I didn't pay no mind to him,
and shore 'nuff, I caught some kind of awful disease."
"What was it?"
"The doctors didn't have no name for it, 'cause nobody ever
had it before. I had a real high fever."
"How high did your temperature go?"
"They didn't have no thermometer, but it must have been
pretty high, 'cause when I got in the tub it boiled the bath water.
The docs prescribed some kind of pills, but for some reason they
didn't help none."
"Did you take the pills?" Cap Thomas asked.
"Hell no."
 30

"There. That's your answer."

"You old codgers," said Rex, "are so logical it leaves me
stunned. Did you take any kind of medication, Tom?"
"I reckon you could call it that. Some sheepherder gave me
some stuff to drink that he had cooked off, and it done the trick. I
was healed before it hit my gut."
"Strong stuff, huh?"
"I guess so. Whang wouldn't drink none of it, but he got a
whiff of the fumes and had a hangover for two days."
"Did you ever see a vampire bat?"
"Only once. Dracula, when he played for the Pittsburgh Pi-
rates."
"I thought Count Dracula was from Transylvania, not Pennsyl-
vania."
"He was always getting the two confused and ended up in
Pittsburgh. Sandy Koufax struck him out on three fastballs. Actually,
wild and strange places always did get my oil to circulating. I ain't
talking about places like Hollywood, California. It's got some pretty
wild people there, but I'm talking about a different kind of wild,
like the rare, giant three-titted women of the Amazon that National
Geographic sent me down there to photograph and interview."
"Did you find the women?"
"Shore did. They rule the roost. They are nine feet tall, but
their men are runts. The women capture the men and keep them in
harems. I reckon I was the only white man they had ever seen."
"Did one of them capture you for her harem?"
Tom faked a sheepish grin. "Yeah, I managed to get myself
captured. I capture kinda easy where women are concerned. One of
'em nabbed me and throwed me into a big bamboo cage with about
twenty native men."
"What happened?"
"Can't tell you that."
"Why not?"
"I'm too modest. I'll just say I soon showed her who was
boss."
"You mean you held a mirror up to her?"
"Yeah, and she thought I was some kind of wizard. From then
on I was absolute boss. I was gonna bring her back home to Texas
with me, but then I got to wondering how the heck I would dress
her. I mean, finding a bra for her would be a big problem."
"What are some of the more interesting things you've done
for a living?"
 31

"Mud wrestling with naked women comes to mind. Then there

was the time when I was young and even more handsome than I am
now that I decided to be a goat breeder but changed my mind after
giving it a second thought. I was kinda worried about what my kids
would look like."
"How many kids do you have?"
"None to speak of."
Cap Thomas took up the questioning. "How many do you have
not to speak of?"
"I don't speak of them."
"Do you ever speak t o them?"
"Yeah, now and then, but all they ever say is, 'B-a-a-a.'"
"I spoke to one of the other kind on the street one day last
week. He was a ninety-year-old man. I took one look at him and
said to myself, 'By George, this guy is a dead ringer for ol' Tom
Adler. I'll bet he's Tom's grandson."
"No, Cap, that was me you was talking to. I was going incog-
nito."
"Like hell. I didn't see no sign of a disguise."
"Don't need none. Nobody recognizes me without my say-so. I
never told this to nobody before, but I'll let you in on the secret
now. You are actually a son of mine."
"You mean you know who my mother was and you kidded
her?"
"Right. She was my favorite nanny."
"B-a-a-a!"
"Okay, you two old goats," Rex said. "I think you've milked
the goat thing to death.
 32

Bi g H ai l St o r m

"Tom," Rex said, "in all your roaming around throughout the
world, did you ever get caught out in a fierce storm?"
"I've seen some gosh-awful storms in a lot of countries, but
the only one I ever got caught out in was right here in Texas when I
was in Tailbone Canyon looking for diamonds."
"Diamonds? In Tailbone Canyon? You gotta be kidding."
"Did I say I found any? It was last August and it came the
darndest hailstorm I ever seen in my life. I mean the hailstones was
so big they was breaking the boulders. Luckily, there was a cliff with
an overhang, and I managed to save my skin. The canyon was plumb
full of quail, and the hail wiped 'em out. They was laying three deep
all over the place. There must have been at least ten thousand dead
birds after the hail let up."
Floyd perked up at the mention of the hailstorm. "I remember
that day. It happened on a Saturday. I heard about it and went out
to Tailbone Canyon the next day to see what damage it had done. It
had stripped all the trees, but I didn't see one dead quail."
"What?" Tom said. "You didn't see all them dead quail laying
around all over the ground? You sure?"
"Positive. Not one dead bird did I see."
Tom stroked his chin. "Well, now, that explains something I
been wondering about. As I was coming out of the canyon I met
about a thousand bobcats going in."
 33

T h e Ech o T r ee

"Speaking of Tailbone Canyon," Floyd said to Tom, "Did you

ever go out to the Echo Tree?"
"Shore did, lots of times."
"Are you guys serious?" Rex asked. "Is there really an echo
tree?"
"Tell him about it, Tom," said Floyd.
"About a mile before you get to Tailbone Canyon there is a
trail leading off to the right of the main trail. A sign with an arrow
says 'ECHO TREE 200 YARDS'. It's a big hollow tree with a wood-
pecker hole up about mouth high to an Irishman. You holler into
the hole and you can hear your echo plain as your mother-in-law
telling you how ugly you are.
"The first time I went out there I seen this goofy-looking guy
walk up to the tree and yell into the hole. I listened to him for
about fifteen minutes before going back to the main trail. He hol-
lered real loud, 'Hey!', and of course the tree answered back 'Hey!'
Then he hollered, 'Who you?' and the tree said, 'Who you?' and the
nut said, 'I asked you first', and the tree said, 'I asked you first', and
the man said, 'No you didn't. I asked you first.'
"Like I said, after listening to that for a while I went on to the
canyon. I spent the whole afternoon there, and on my way out I
went back to the tree, and that same guy was still arguing with it."
"Were you looking for diamonds in Tailbone Canyon that
time, too?" Rex asked.
"No, not that time. I was looking for the gold rings they fell
out of."
 34

A Sm ar t M u l e

"I've heard a lot of stuff about Arkansas as it was supposed to

have been in the old days," said Rex, "but I doubt the people were
all that backward, like the fifteen-year-old boy who was seen chas-
ing his mother because she was trying to wean him. What were the
people really like back there when you were a kid, Cap?"
"Some of the yarns might have been stretched a little, but we
did plow with mules. I ain't lying about this. Most folks think mules
are stupid, but actually they are smarter than horses. Some old
cowboy might shoot me for saying that, but it's a fact. When horses
hitched to a wagon get scared and run, they will run right into a
barbwire fence, but mules have better sense than to get all cut up
that way. They will run up to it and either turn or stop.
"I can't swear to this, but I have heard that horses will run
into a burning barn, but mules won't. Some farmers really did plow
with one mule, but I plowed with a team of two. They knew 'gee'
meant turn right, and 'haw' meant turn left. One old mule we had
was especially smart. Old Bones could tell the time of day. He even
knew the days of the week. Usually we didn't work on Sunday, but I
remember one Sunday Pa wanted to finish plowing a piece of land.
We was gonna go on a long fishing trip, and that few rows of corn
was all that was left to plow.
"Bones knew it was Sunday, and when I started to harness
him, he began to limp like he had a sore foot. There was nothing
wrong with it, and I hitched him to the plow. He knew exactly when
it was time to come in for dinner--lunch to city slickers. We just
had one more round to go to finish the plowing, and I made him go
the extra round. I swear the bastard cussed me out. I don't claim to
know a lot of mulese, but I know when I'm getting a cussing out. He
cussed me up and down, sideways and cater cornered."
"Could you understand what he called you?"
 35

"I ain't real sure, but as near as I could tell, he hinted that I
came from a long line of ancestors who had the habit of raising
their hind legs and leaving their calling cards on trees."
Rex grinned. "He must have known you pretty well, Cap."
"I reckon so. I've been called a son-of-a-bitch more times than
a golf club or a billiard cue ball.
"One Sunday I saw him walk up against a barbwire fence to
judge its height. Then he backed off fifteen paces, took a running
jump, and floated over the fence clean as a soap bubble. There
wasn't nothing he wanted on the other side, but he knew I was
watching him, and he wanted to show me that a dang fence didn't
mean nothing more to him than a clod of dirt.
"My folks never would let us kids smoke cigarettes until we
was ten. Until that age it was corncob pipes or nothing. Naturally,
we would sneak around and roll a cig now and then.
"One day I was puffing on one out at the barn and Bones saw
me. The bastard snitched to my dad. I say this in all sincerity-- Pa
and that mule carried on long conversations. He really knew mulese
like no other man on earth. I could only catch snatches of what
they was discussing, but I heard a few words that I could under-
stand and translate. I reckon Bones was the only mule that ever be-
came versed in religion and Greek mythology.
"I don't know what tanners use for tanning hide, but I can say
that a hickory stick does a damn good job. I ain't touched a ciga-
rette since."
"Bones must have given you lots of pleasure along with a few
problems," Rex allowed.
"You shore got that right," Cap agreed. "When I was a teenager
on the farm we had a boy about my age working for us and living
with us. He had been in the same orphanage where my foster folks
found me. He stayed with us about two years. His name was Hector,
and we called him Heck. No surprise there. He had a little mischie-
vous streak in him, but my mom liked him and sort of bribed him
with little gifts to keep him from getting too far out of line. I was
always good for nothing.
"We played checkers a lot, and both of us got pretty good at
the game. We played pretty much neck and neck, neither of us
dominating the other, but when he would win, he would gloat and
rub it in. It was all in fun, and I didn't mind. Sometimes I would do a
little of it myself.
"We made lots of trips to town in a wagon drawn by Bones
and Toby, his team mate. Bones was a lot smarter than Toby and
 36

was the leader, so we always talked to him. The wagon had a

springboard seat for the driver, and me and Heck would sit up
there and talk. We had made a thousand trips to town over that
same road, and it got kind of boring. I mean, there was nothing new
to see along the way. You soon get tired of watching the same two
bulls fighting in Kook Johnson's cow pasture, and listening to
Kook's wife screaming at him and calling him a dadgum-son-of-a-
gun, but sometimes she would vary it a little and call him a dad-
gum-peagreen-son-of-a-gun.
"So one day Heck comes up with a keen idea. He suggested
that, since Ol' Bones didn't need to be driven, because all he needed
was to be told where to go, why not go in the covered wagon with a
table and two chairs. That way we could sit back there and play
checkers while we rode along.
"I thought it was a dang good idea, and that's just what we
done. Before starting out I would tell Bones all the places we
planned to stop at, and he would take us there in the order given to
him. If we wanted to take a little side trip on the way to town, Bones
knew the way and there was no problem. Sometimes we would turn
off the main road and go see Groot, the Dutchman who made the
best corn juice in the country. After hitting the jug and flirting with
Groot's two daughters and his wife a while, we would go on into
town.
"One day on the way home me and Heck was back in the cov-
ered wagon and playing checkers. Bones knew where we was sup-
posed to go, and we didn't think nothing about it. Fact is, we got so
we didn't even include the reins with the harness. I had a neat trap
set for Heck to fall into. If he made the move that I thought he
would, I could get a three-for-one swap. But it backfired on me. I
stepped in his trap, and he jumped four of my men.
"This kind of thing didn't happen very often, and Heck nearly
weeped with delight. He r'ared back in his chair and roared, 'Haw-
haw-haw!' We wound up at Kook Johnson's place."
 37

T h e Lo c h N ess M o n st er

"I read a magazine article the other day about a group of peo-
ple with sophisticated equipment who made a thorough search of
Lock Ness for the legendary monster. Evidently there are a lot of
idiots who actually believe such a creature exists." Rex Kimball was
certain the statement would elicit another tall tale. It did.
"Whadda ya mean, idiots?" Tom said with faked indignation. "I
seen him with my own eyeballs several years ago when I was in
Scotland with a group of piscapalians. For you ignert yahoos what
ain't got no education, piscapalians is people that make a study of
fish. Fact is, I saved the monster's life.
"A man walking the shore with his neighbor's wife found it
stretched out on the beach. It appeared to be dead, and the guy
called us experts to see if we wanted to examine it before some
fishermen started hacking it up for fish bait.
"It was about thirty feet long, green, and had flaps along its
back like the pictures of some dinosaurs you see in kids' picture
books. I took one look and seen right away it wasn't dead. But the
pore thing was awful sick. Me and the other piscapalians examined
it real good and conclusioned it had a bad head cold. Its nose was
all stopped up, and it couldn't hardly breathe.
"The others wanted to call in all kinds of medical specialists
to try and save its life, but none of 'em wanted to pay for the serv-
ices. That's when I come up with my idea. My plan worked, I'm
happy to say, and it didn't cost nobody nothing."
At this point Tom extracted a plug of tobacco from his pants
pocket. Deliberately he took a knife from the other pocket and be-
gan cutting off a hunk. The other men said not a word. In a silent
conspiracy they let him chew on the quid for several minutes. Still
they remained silent. Tom began to squirm, and color crept to his
cheeks. At last, when no one asked him the expected question, Tom
arose and allowed as how it was bedtime.
"Sit back down, Tom," Rex said amid laughter. "How did you
save the monster's life?"
 38

Tom pretended further indignation. "Go fall off a cliff!"

Cap Thomas knelt on the floor, and the others quickly fol-
lowed suite. "Please, please! Tell us! Tell us!" begged Floyd Jeffers.
Tom turned and stared down at the group. "You bastards! I
orta let you wonder the rest of your miserable lives how the Lock
Ness Monster was saved from certain death by one simple idea."
"Okay, guys," Rex said. Then he turned to the old man. "Come
on, Tom. What did you do?"
Tom hesitated. "I dunno. Maybe I'll make y'all wait till my
book comes out."
"You writing a book?"
"Of course, I'm writing a book. Ain't ever'body? Well, okay,
seeing' as how you fellers are just busting' with curiosity, I'll tell
you.
"I borrowed some stink bait from a kid and smeared it on its
nose. The flies blowed the monster's nose, and its head cleared up.
Then we poured ten pounds of aspirin down its throat to cure its
cold."
 39

T h e Co u r t sh i p Of Fl o y d Jef f er s

"How long did you live near Brownfield, Floyd?" asked Rex.
"I was born on a farm west of Brownfield and lived there till I
was about fifteen. We moved around a lot after that, but when I was
in my twenties we moved back and stayed till we moved to Anson a
few years ago. My first girlfriend went to school in the Johnson
community, where I grew up. Her name was Martina Wentworth,
and her family was well to do. Hers was the only family that had a
big fine house and modern farm equipment. They always kept the
house and barn painted and the fences in good shape.
"I was ten, a year older than Martina, and I was shy and bash-
ful around her. She was the prettiest girl in the whole dang country,
and of course all the boys throwed themselves at her, but she was
kind of aloof. She was an only child and shielded pretty much. Her
folks was nice enough, but they didn't really associate with the oth-
ers in the community. They attended church in town.
"I was too dang bashful to tell her how I felt about her, but I
reckon she knew. Girls have a way of knowing things like that. My
folks was poor and couldn't afford to dress us kids up real nice,
and maybe that's why she didn't pay me no mind. But the more she
ignored me, the deeper in love with her I fell.
"I palled around with a guy named Ted Collins, and he had an
older brother named Wesley, who was a kind of role model to me.
Wes was a cool dude as they say today. His folks wasn't much better
off than mine, but he had a good job with the county road depart-
ment and could afford a good car and nice duds.
 40

"One day when I was gonna spend the night with Ted, we was
out at the barn to milk the cows, and I let Wes in on my secret. I
asked him what I could do to impress Martina. He told me some-
thing I have remembered all my life. He said everybody, girls in-
cluded, don't want to be impressed, they want to be appreciated.
'Nice clothes help,' he said, 'but the main thing is to always be neat
and clean. Keep your shoes shined and your hair combed. And
watch your manners. Feel good about yourself and don't act like a
moonshiner's kid from way back in the sticks. Don't pretend. Just
be yourself.'
"That sounded like good advice, and I tried to take it, but I
was still a country kid with no idea how to be natural around girls. I
tried to act cool like Wes.
"One day my folks went to town to do the weekly shopping
and was gonna be gone all day. It was Saturday. I pretended I was
gonna hunt jackrabbits with Ted, but I had other secret plans.
Wesley smoked, and I figgered that was one of his secrets where
girls was concerned. Maybe if I could get a pack of Camels or some-
thing, Martina would think I was a little more sophisticated or at
least not such a geek. I imagined myself in her parlor casually pull-
ing a cig from the pack and lighting up. But there was no place for
me to buy the smokes even if I had the money, which I didn't, so I
skipped the smoking bit.
"After the folks drove off in the Model A, I brought the wash
tub in and filled it with warm water that I had to heat on the gaso-
line-burning cook stove. I had one Sunday suit that I always wore to
church, and after taking my bath, I donned it, careful to tie the
knot in the necktie just so. I had lots of hair in them days, and tried
to comb it with the part in the middle. My hair was always a prob-
lem, unruly as all get-out. No matter how much goop I put on it, it
just seemed to have a mind of its own.
"Then I got a bright idea. My dad kept a five-gallon can of lin-
seed oil that he would mix with red lead to keep his tools from
rusting. I massaged some of the raw oil without the lead into my
hair, and combed it. I don't recommend it as a substitute for Bryl-
cream, but my hair parted pretty as you please and stayed put.
"The Wentworths lived in a big house about a mile east of us.
There wasn't no hills in that part of the world, but the house sat on
a slight rise in the land. The road to their house wasn't paved, and a
rain the night before had left it muddy. Barbwire fences ran along
the road on both sides. Drainage ditches separated the road from
 41

the fences. All slicked up in my Sunday best, I set out to go court-

ing.
"It was impossible to avoid stepping in the mud, and even
worse, a low stretch in the road was filled with water. A cow pas-
ture on one side offered firmer ground, and I jumped the bar ditch,
or tried to. I didn't quite make it. One shoe filled with muddy water,
and the other was already caked with gooey mud. To get to the
firmer ground I had to crawl on my belly under the fence. Naturally,
I snagged my coat on a barb and made about a four-inch rip.
"A kid with any sense would have called it a lost cause and
gone back home, but I was determined to win the girl of my
dreams. Needless to say, I was nervous as a mouse in a snake pit
when I arrived at her front door. I tried to screw up my courage as I
climbed the half dozen steps to the big porch and rang the bell. No
other house in the entire community had a doorbell.
"I had memorized my little speech that I would rattle off when
Martina would open the door. I'm sure it was less than a minute be-
fore the door opened, but it seemed to take forever.
"'Well, Floyd Jeffers!' exclaimed Martina's mother. 'My, but
don't you look spiffy.' Then she saw my shoes. 'Good gracious,
child! Did you fall in the ditch?
"'Yeah, sort of,' I stammered. 'I was just passing by and
thought I would stop and say "Hi" to Martina. Is she home?'
"'Oh, you just missed her. She is attending a concert with
some of her friends in town.'
"There followed a kind of awkward silence. I pictured in my
mind Martina snuggled up to some rich city dude, and a pang of
jealousy seized me.
"'Come in, Floyd. We must get you out of those wet shoes and
socks. You'll catch your death of cold."
"I looked at my feet all embarrassed and tried to think of a
reason not to go into the house. 'Aw, shux, Miz Wentworth, it ain't
nothin'. I reckon it was a mistake me coming' here and all. I'll be
going' now.'
"'No, no. Take your shoes off and come in. We will dry them
with my hair drier, and I'll find you a pair of my husband's socks.
Where were you going all decked out on a Saturday?'
"I thought I might as well fess up. 'This might seem a little odd
to you old folks,' I said, 'but kids fall in love just like grown-ups. I
want Martina to get to know me better and maybe like me. I was
coming' to see her.'
 42

"'Well isn't that nice! Imagine my little daughter already inter-

ested in boys. Do I look like an old woman to you?'
"'Heck, Miz Wentworth, I didn't mean old like a grandma or
anything. I meant---'
"'That's all right. When I was your age, I, too, thought thirty
was old. What on earth did you put on your hair? It looks stiff as a
board.'
"When I told her what I had done, I thought she was gonna
pass out laughing. Then she sobered up. 'We will have to get that off
before it dries, or you will look like a porcupine.' She almost
dragged me into the bathroom and used half of a bottle of shampoo
before she was satisfied. Then she sat me down on the sofa and
washed and dried my feet. The socks was a perfect fit. I guess her
husband had kinda little feet. I was glad he wasn't home.
"'Look, Miz Wentworth,' I said as I stood to leave, 'can we
kinda keep this thing a little secret between us? I know I made a
fool out of myself, and I don't want nobody else to know, specially
Martina.'
"'Of course. I'm glad you came. Tell your mother to come see
me sometime. I'm sure we could become good friends.'
"'I don't want Mom to know I was here. You promise you
won't tell? I mean I don't want nobody to know. But, I'd still like to
talk to Martina even if I am a country hick like they say.'
"'Who says you're a country hick?'
"'Well, I reckon y'all think we are dumb clod hoppers, and
maybe you're right, but I plan on getting a good education. I'll make
Martina and all of you proud of me. Maybe I'll be a doctor or a law-
yer. I might even write a book.'
"'Good for you. But there is nothing wrong with farming the
land. Don't let anyone make you feel inferior just because you were
not born into wealth.'
"'Okay. Are you gonna tell Martina anything about me com-
ing' here to see her?'
"'Not unless you want me to. If I mention it at all, I'll just say
you were passing by and stopped in to say Hi.'
"'Oh, I nearly forgot. I brung Martina a present. It ain't store
bought, but it's a lot better anyhow. You reckon she'll like it?' I
reached into my coat pocket and withdrew the gift. When she saw
the toad her eyes widened and her mouth flew open, but then she
quick-like regained her composure.
 43

"'I'm sure she would love the present. However, we just don't
have a way to take proper care of it. You wouldn't want it to die,
now, would you?'
"I was disappointed, but I said kinda meek-like, 'No, ma'am.'
"'Then why don't you take it down there and release it in Mar-
tina's special flower bed? That way it will help protect her flowers
against insects, and the frog will benefit also.'
"That there sounded like a dang good idea, and I brightened
up."
When Floyd had finished his story, Rex said, "I propose we ex-
pel this guy from our club. His wife's name is Martina, and she was
a Wentworth. His story doesn't qualify."
Floyd objected. "Sure it does. It ain't all true. I lied about the
six steps up to the front porch. There was only five."
 44

M o r e A b o u t D r ea m s

"Do any of you believe dreams are significant?" Rex threw out
the question.
"I do," James Batwood said. "In fact I must be dreaming right
now. I mean, I've been planning on making this deer hunt for two
years, and I can't believe I'm really here."
"Do you ever dream, Cap?" Rex asked.
"Shore do. All the time. Most of 'em are pretty weird."
"That figures," said Tom.
"What's the most absurd dream you ever had, Cap?" Rex
prompted.
"I reckon the most bizarre, absurd, ridiculous and unbeliev-
able dream I ever had in my life was that Tom was intelligent."
"That must have been a nightmare for you," Tom shot back. "I
mean, any time you dream that a nut like me is smarter than you it
has to be pretty nerve wracking."
"Getting back to the original question---" Bill Stasey began but
was interrupted by Ray Savage. "The original question," Bill stated,
"is the one Adam in the Garden asked the Lord after Adam came
back from among the bushes with Eve."
"What was that?"
"Nope, that ain't it."
"I meant," said Bill, "what was the question Adam asked?"
"The question was 'What is a headache?'"
"What were you going to say, Bill?" Rex said in an effort to get
the discussion about the significance of dreams going.
"I forgot. Old jokes always untrack my train of thought."
"Maybe your train of thought never left the station."
Bill frowned. "There you go again. Don't you know any new
jokes?"
"Pay no attention to Ray," said Rex. "You had something you
wanted to say."
"You asked whether we thought dreams have significance. My
answer is an unqualified yes."
 45

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"I once knew an elderly woman that some said was a witch.
She lived all alone in a small hut set back a ways in a wooded area.
A lot of people were afraid of her and left her strictly alone. I, on
the other hand, deemed such talk mere superstition and went out
of my way to be friendly with her. Often she would appear to be
completely lost in a dream.
"I soon changed my mind about superstition where she was
concerned. There was something very strange and paranormal
about that woman. After being alone with her a few times and be-
coming convinced that she, indeed, possessed strange powers, I was
a little uneasy, but she seemed harmless, and apparently she liked
me. Sometimes she appeared perfectly normal in every way; other
times she made my flesh crawl.
"I found myself becoming attached to her more and more.
Soon the attraction she held for me become so strong that I could
not stay away from her. I was working at a bank at the time, and I
kept shirking my duties and making false excuses to cut out and
leave. The sudden urge to go see her could hit me at any time, and
there was nothing I could do but go. Let me hasten to add that there
was nothing sexual about the compulsion. I really don't know how
to describe it.
"I was ashamed to admit that she held some mysterious power
over me, and I began sneaking around to see her. The attraction be-
came so strong that at last I was even skipping my meals. I began
losing a lot of weight, and my complexion lost all its color. My eyes
became sunken and I looked like a living skeleton."
"Too bad you didn't retain them features," Cap teased. "But I
reckon not everybody can stay pretty like me."
Cap's scarred face was so grotesque that no one kidded him
about it. In contrast, Bill was rather handsome. He merely grinned
and continued his story.
"Finally I was spending every waking hour with her in rapt
and earnest conversation. The weirdest thing of all was when she
began telling me about her dreams."
Here Bill paused for dramatic effect. He really had their atten-
tion. No one even thought of letting him hang as had been the case
with Tom.
"What did she dream about?" Rex asked the questions appar-
ently in dead earnest.
"Don't know. I went sound asleep.”
 46

Bac k T o D o o d l eb u g Co u n t y

"Tom," Rex said, "where is Doodlebug County? I never heard

of it. Is that in Texas?"
"Wyoming or Pennsylvania or some place like that. I didn't
have no maps to go by. The only map I'd ever seen was the ones you
scratch in the dirt with a stick, and they are kinda hard to fold up
and take with you. Fact is, I still ain't got the knack of folding a pa-
per map proper."
"Maybe it was Transylvania," Rex suggested.
"Could be. Come to think of it, there was a lot of vampires
running around loose, 'though I don't recollect ever seeing the
Count there. Anyhow, the West was wild in them days, and so was
the Indians."
"Did anything else unusual happen while you were deputy
sheriff?"
"Ever'thing that happened back then was unusual. I don't even
like to tell this incident, because it sort of stereotypes Indians, and
some of them living now would be insulted. But you gotta keep in
mind that this was a long time ago, and they wasn't very civilized
then. Hell, for that matter, us whites wasn't either."
"Also," Cap cut in, "you gotta keep in mind that it's all a damn
lie."
Tom shot him a sharp look. "Vas you dar, Sharley?"
"One lazy day in June," Tom went on, "me and the town drunk
was playing' checkers, and Sheriff Bicflicker was standing' around
flicking' his Bic when we got a message from Rotten Tooth, chief of
the Mohair tribe, that they was short of buffalo chips, and his
squaws wouldn't be able to do no more cooking' if they couldn't get
no more fuel. He wanted to know if we could help.
"So Sheriff Bicflicker," Tom continued, "bein' a personal
friend of Rotten Tooth, sends me out to the tribe's headquarters
with a truck load of synthetic buffalo chips. I ain't sure what they
 47

was made of, but they smelled pretty authentic. I reckon the squaws
preferred 'em to any other kind of fuel, so some enterprising'
young man came up with the idea. The buffalo out there was get-
ting' scarcer all the time, and he figgered rightly that it was a mat-
ter of time before there wouldn't be enough chips, so he experi-
mented and finally came up with a formula for synthetic buffalo
chips and opened a small factory.
"Anyways, I loaded up the truck and drove out there to the
reservation. When I got there the only Injun I seen was a boy about
ten years old. He said the whole dang tribe was holding' a pow-wow
under a big open shed about a quarter of a mile farther on. Now
you don't go bustin' in on a meetin' like that, so there was nothin'
for me to do but wait.
"The kid didn't seem inclined to talk, so I just sat there in the
cab of the truck all by my lonesome, thinkin' about long legs and
short skirts. I was a young buck at that time. I still think about 'em,
but I can't remember why.
"There was a crude building of some kind about fifty yards off
to my right. I decided to walk over and see what was in it. I peeped
through a window, and what I seen dang near made me swaller my
chaw of tobakker. I mean I thought my eyes was gonna pop clean
out of their sockets.
"It was a big room with a dirt floor, and I reckon there was
thirty or forty babies on the floor, all peaceful and quiet, and not a
grown Injun anywhere around. But what skeered the livin' day-
lights out of me was about a dozen big old rattlesnakes slitherin'
around among the babies and rattlin' their dang tails off.
"I figgered if jist one of the tots made a move it would get bit
and yell out, then all hell would break loose. I mean, it would start a
chain reaction, and before I could rescue any of 'em the snakes
would strike them all. I thought about it a minute or two and de-
cided there was only one way I could save the tykes."
At this point he paused until one of the listeners obliged him
by asking how he handled the situation.
"Well," he said, "I always toted a couple of forty-five Colts,
and if I do say so myself, I was purty darn handy with 'em. I mean I
could draw and shoot the eyeballs out of 'skeeters on the wing be-
fore you could say 'ouch'. I knew it was risky, but what else could I
do? I figgered if I was lucky, I could pop the heads off the rattlers
before many of the babies was struck. So that's just what I done.
Not a one of the little cherubs got bit.
 48

"I figgered the kids' parents would be so grateful, they would

make me a honorary member of the tribe, but that ain't what hap-
pened. The gunshots brought all the big Injuns running, and by the
time they got there I had all the headless serpents laid out side-by-
side.
"I was real pleased with myself, grinning like a 'possum up a
'simmon tree and expecting to get mobbed by a bunch of grateful
Injuns. I got mobbed, all right, but the Injuns wasn't grateful. Saying
they was unhappy is an understatement. Lucky I got out with my
scalp intact. Them savages was madder then a flock of crows chas-
ing a hoot owl out of their rookery. I felt like the hoot owl."
Again he paused expectantly.
"What were they mad about, Tom?" one of the fellows asked.
"They didn't want them snakes bothered. They had 'em
charmed and was using 'em for baby rattles."
 49

A Bo y Cal l ed T h u d

Kent Sheridan was in his early sixties. He had lived in Los An-
geles until after the Watts riots. That disturbance together with in-
creasing smog had prompted him to move to Texas, where he had
relatives. Like Bill Stasey, he did not speak with a Texas drawl and
used relatively proper speech. As a matter of fact, most of the men
comprising the group of deer hunters could use better grammar
than they actually did, but apparently they thought wild stories and
sloppy speech went together.
Kent had been a pretty good baseball player in his younger
days and had at one time tried out with the Dodgers. He was an ex-
pert at trap and skeet and liked all kinds of hunting.
On this deer hunt he had spoken little, preferring to sit back
and listen to the others as they spun their wild yarns. Rex Kimball
asked him if he had something of interest to tell.
"All right," he agreed. "I'll tell you about an awkward, gangly
kid I knew when we attended school together in Compton, Califor-
nia.
"Thadius Keller was the only boy I ever knew who could trip
over both his feet at the same time. I had seen him on the high
school campus but had never spoken to him. I was aware that all
the other kids shunned him, and I felt a little sorry for him, but
being involved in my own affairs, had not gone out of my way to
make his acquaintance.
"Later, after he had saved my life, I made it my business to
learn something of his background. He was born in the backwoods
of Kentucky and lived there until he was fourteen. When he and his
family moved to California he became an immediate misfit. Un-
learned in the social graces and dressing in the manner in which he
was accustomed, he was every inch the classic hillbilly. Probably the
 50

midwife performed the only bath he ever had in his life. Although
he was a loner, I believe he actually was hungry for companionship,
but for obvious reasons, no one wanted his company.
"The demeaning sobriquet Thud was hung on him by his fa-
ther, who habitually ridiculed him after about age ten. He confided
to me about his relationship with his dad after we became friends.
He told me his father called him Thud because he was always falling
on his face. I gather he meant socially as well as physically.
"He lived in his own world and would not have been able to
carry on a meaningful conversation with the other students, who
knew nothing of 'coon dawgs' such as blueticks and redbones, even
if the kids had been inclined to talk to him.
"My first conversation with him occurred, oddly enough, one
hot day way out in the middle of the Mojave Desert. I was hunting
jackrabbits alone and foolishly pulled off the dirt road with my Ford
sedan. The terrain had appeared solid enough, but it was deceptive.
Soon I was hopelessly mired in sand right up to the rear axle.
"I had heard or read that letting air out of the rear tires would
help give it traction. What it did was ruin one of the tires. I soon
drank up all my water, having brought only a little in a Thermos
bottle.
"I was a long way from any paved road, and there was no
building of any kind within walking distance. I could have been
stuck there a week without seeing a soul, had I managed to survive
that long, which I most assuredly would not have done.
"Desperate and frightened, I dug as best I could until I was ex-
hausted and terribly thirsty. I would never have managed to extri-
cate the car and no doubt would have died within hours without
Thud's assistance. He had, by fate or coincidence, just happened to
be hunting in that same area. He had heard me racing my engine
and guessed what had happened. From a rise he had spotted my car
and came to my rescue. He had used more common sense than I
had about roaming around in the desert. He had the foresight to
bring plenty of water and Cokes and a shovel and a tire pump.
"After he had spent about an hour digging out the car and get-
ting it back on the road, we discovered that one of my tires was
hopelessly ruined. To my undying shame, I must admit I carried no
spare. Luckily his spare was the same size as my tires. He absolutely
refused to let me pay him for his help or the tire.
"I think he was more perceptive and sensitive than most peo-
ple gave him credit for being. Although we were friendly and occa-
sionally talked a little at school, he did not insist on my constant
 51

company, no doubt thinking it might alienate me from the other

students. To be quite frank about it, I was glad he saw it that way,
not that I disliked the guy, but peer pressure can do strange things.
"Awkward or not, that boy could play baseball. He was so
good at it that the other players tolerated him, body odor and all.
He refused to shower. We both advanced to the semi-pros and
eventually both had a chance to make the majors.
"After learning about how he had acquired his nickname I al-
ways called him Thad instead of Thud. I think he appreciated it, al-
though he never seemed to resent others calling him by the moni-
ker meant to ridicule him.
"All the other players constantly mocked him and teased him
about 'possum and taters and all manner of things typically rural. I
could tell he was hurt, but he bore their insults stoically. He did not
even appear to resent their insistence that he sit alone at the far
end of the dugout bench.
"However, there is a limit to how much any human being can
put up with before an explosion occurs. Thad reached that limit one
day when one of the more popular but conceited players made
some disparaging remark about his mother. I don't remember what
the guy said about her, but I think it had something to do with snuff
and army shoes. Thad decked him with a straight right to the jaw.
"As I said, this player was popular with the team, and he drew
up a petition to have Thad kicked off the squad. All the other play-
ers signed it. When it was presented to me for my signature, I
balked. I was not disliked among the guys, but they did not under-
stand my friendship with 'Thud'. They insisted that I sign the peti-
tion or they might put my name next to that of Thadius Keller.
"I owed Thad my loyalty. After all, he had been there for me
when I desperately needed him. I really had no choice. I wanted to
remain on the team of course, but this was his one chance to make
it in the world, and I tried to explain all this to the team and why I
could not sign the petition. They would not listen. In spite of all that
was at stake for me, I made up my mind to go to bat for my friend."
Here Kent stared into space and slowly shook his head. "That
decision was a grave mistake," he said with a sad expression.
"What happened?" Rex asked.
"Sandy Koufax struck me out on three fastballs."
 52

D eb u n k i n g A M y t h

Bill Stasey began removing his shoes, but Rex stopped him.
"Don't you dare!" he said. "We didn't bring any decontaminant."
"But I have a bad case of Olympicitis," Bill protested.
"You've got what?"
"Olympicitis--agony of de feet."
"Too bad. If you just have to remove your shoes, go outside
and walk about thirty yards away, but be sure you are down wind
from us."
Bill ignored the "order" and finished taking his shoes off. A
few minutes later when Rex got up to add wood to the fire, he
tripped over Bill's feet and almost took a header.
"Damn the Irish and their big feet, anyway," Rex said in pre-
tended annoyance.
"Do you know why the Irish have big feet?" Bill asked.
"No, why?"
"For Scots to trip over."
"Nah, that ain't the reason," interjected Floyd. "Darwin proved
that all species of animals adapt to their environment. Big feet of
the Irish evolved down through the ages to enable them to maintain
a more or less upright position during their drunken brawls."
"You actually lived in Ireland for a while, didn't you, Bill?"
asked Kent Sheridan.
"Yes, for a couple of years. I wanted to see what the people of
the Old Sod are really like. I had a suspicion that the Irish were be-
ing unjustly maligned. We, especially in this country, tend to stereo-
type everyone. Indians are lazy and uncivilized. Italians are mob-
sters. Scots are stingy. Irish are drunken brawlers with big feet."
"And what did you learn about the Irish over there?"
"That they are drunken brawlers with big feet."
 53

"You're kidding, of course."

"Of course. Oh, they do their share of drinking and fighting,
but no more than in a lot of countries. We Irish are not all ignorant,
superstitious buffoons. Neither are we all witty. We are just people.
Some are brilliant; some are stupid. Some are ditch diggers; some
are scientists, educators, artists, poets or philosophers, and some
are even sober once in a while.
"Really, the Irish have contributed to our American culture
probably as much as any other people. The list of accomplished
Irish people is long, and I won't bore you with names, but if you
think about it, you can readily see that making the Irish the laugh-
ing stock of the world is terribly unjustified. I really had intended to
spend the rest of my life there, but unexpected things developed
that forced my departure."
"Are you referring to the political situation over there?"
"No, not that. For one thing Bridy Murphy was always pester-
ing me to marry her, and then there were all those damn lepre-
chauns and banshees that kept scaring the hell out of me."
 54

A So l i t ar y Gr av e

"The mention of the Irish," Kent Sheridan said, "reminds me

of a remarkable experience I had a few years ago when I visited
some relatives in the state of New York. Many people who know
nothing of New York seem to think the whole state is one big city.
As a matter of fact, though, the state encompasses some pretty wild
and rugged country.
"I spent several weeks with an uncle and aunt who lived on a
farm containing streams and large trees. It was a lovely sylvan area,
and I greatly enjoyed strolling alone through the woods. One day I
happened upon a mound that appeared to be a solitary grave. That
night I asked Aunt Martha about it.
"'Yes," she told me, 'it is a grave, a very old one. It contains
the remains of a young girl in my ancestry. Her name was Margaret
Kelley, a vibrant maiden, beautiful and talented. I don't know the
complete story, but it is said she committed suicide after she and
her dashing young lover broke up. The names and circumstances of
the people in her life no doubt have been changed and distorted
with time. I have never learned the name of her lover.'
"This bit of family history intrigued me very much. I couldn't
seem to get this girl off my mind. I kept going back to the grave
every day and sitting under a tree trying to imagine what she looked
like. Do you fellows remember the big to do several years ago about
a girl who claimed to recall under hypnosis a previous life in Ire-
land? She said her name had been Bridy Murphy in her other life."
"Oh, sure," Bill Stasey said, nodding. "The Search For Bridy
Murphy did create quite a stir. Are you going to tell us that some
girl claimed to be the reincarnation of the girl in the grave?"
"Oh no, not at all. My experience during my visit was even
stranger. One day when I was taking my daily stroll in the woods I
 55

drew near the grave, and suddenly the oddest feeling came over me.
The scenery began to change before my eyes. It was in the autumn,
and the leaves were turning to gold, but as I approached the grave-
site I saw them turn from brown and gold to green. To my utter as-
tonishment I saw that my clothing was completely different. I was
clad in garments of the style worn by wealthy young men over a
hundred years ago. The grave was gone. The tree under which it had
been was smaller but still recognizable. By it stood the loveliest girl
I have ever seen. Evidently she was expecting me, and as soon as she
saw me she rushed into my arms."
"You were her old lover who brought about her early demise?"
"Probably," Kent agreed, "but I've just started writing the
book, and even I'm not sure how the darn thing will turn out. Do
any of you fellows have any good ideas?"
"Yeah," Cap said. "Go shoot yourself in the foot."
 56

Ed en Rev i si t ed

"You know, Kent, we must be pretty much on the same wave

length," Ray Savage stated, "because I was about to tell about a re-
alistic dream I had that was a lot like your--whatever the hell you
want to call it. This dream came to me in segments over several
nights.
"In the first dream I retrogressed all the way back to the Gar-
den of Eden. I was Adam and all alone. All I did for a long time was
fool around in the garden picking fruit and naming the animals. Life
was easy, but I got rather lonesome."
"When you named the animals, how did you ever come up
with a name like hippopotamus?"
"I didn't name the species. I gave them personal names. I
called the hippos Bozo and Sophia. In the next dream Eve came
along and spent the next few days putting salve and Band-Aids on
my side until it healed up. Life was a romp after that. We ran
around naked, and she never had even one headache. Everything in
the garden was fine. No thorns, no thistles, no smog. The fruit was
delicious, and the animals were all friendly. They never tried to eat
each other. Just all peace and harmony until that damn snake
showed up from somewhere, and then things sort of went to pot.
We had to put clothes on. Soon after that we left the place."
"I know the story," Kent said. "You were kicked out for dis-
obedience. You should never have listened to your wife. Just look at
all the hell you caused. Women have no judgment and will lead you
wrong every time. Tell me, Adam, was that forbidden fruit really an
apple?"
"Look, I'm no horticulturist or theologian. Besides, all Eve left
for me was the core."
 57

Kent nodded. "Just like a woman."

"And we weren't kicked out. Leaving was our own idea."
"Oh, really? If you weren't expelled, why did you leave such an
ideal place?"
"We wanted to go looking for Texas."
 58

T h e T er r i b l e Gi an t

"Tom," said Rex, "in your time you have been all over the
world. You have explored many of the earth's wildest places--
swamps, jungles, deserts, and the polar ice caps. You have battled
just about everything from giant man-eating monsters to deadly mi-
crobes."
"Don't forget gollynippers in the Dismal Swamp," reminded
Bill Stasey.
"-- and Gollynippers in the Dismal Swamp. You have sailed
about every body of water large enough for launching a boat. You
have weathered storms at sea and tornadoes on land. I suppose
there is no kind of peril that you have not encountered at one time
or another. Tell me truthfully--have you ever been scared?"
"That's like asking a wolf if it's ever been hungry. Hell yes,
I've been scared. Anybody who's been through what I have and says
 59

he's never been scared is a damn liar, or else he's dead and too stu-
pid to know it."
"What is the most frightening experience you ever had?"
"The time I was staying with an Indian chief in upstate New
York. Me and Chief Shooting Bull shared a wigwam way back around
the turn of the century. I forget which century.
"Anyhow, one day I was lying on a mat in the wigwam going
over in my mind the material for the book I was gonna write when
Bull came busting in all out of breath. He was white as a sheep. He
was so dang scared he couldn't hardly talk.
"Seems something had carried off two of his best horses dur-
ing the night. There was plenty of tracks and blood and one eyeball
on the ground. He thought one or two of his wives had been taken,
too, but he wasn't sure. He told me it wasn't no use trying to get
any help from his braves in tracking down the monster. All his
braves was even scareder than he was, he said.
"Nothing like this had ever happened before, and he didn't
have no idea what kind of man or beast could be big enough to
carry away two horses and a squaw or two. He said there was just
one set of tracks. They looked like a man's tracks, only they was
too big to have been made by a man.
"I got my clothes on and went with him to examine the scene.
He was right. No man on earth, not even an Irishman, ever made
tracks that big.
"Whatever the thing was, it was easy to follow. He was kicking
boulders big as small houses out of his way, and he never had to go
round a tree. He mashed big oaks flat like they was weeds, or else
he just stepped over 'em. He must have kicked one big boulder
pretty hard and tore off a toenail. We used it for a shelter during a
brief hailstorm.
"We almost lost the trail, though, when he stepped across a
small lake, but we went around and picked it up again. The terrain
was beginning to get pretty rough. I thought we was gonna have to
give up and go back home when we came to a sheer cliff. The giant
had stepped off with no problem, but if we had tried that the fall
would have killed us. We walked back and forth along the edge
trying to find a way down but no luck. We should have brought a
long rope along, but we hadn't thought of it.
"We decided to stop and have some lunch while we figgered
out what to do."
"What did you have to eat?" Rex asked innocently.
 60

"I reckon the monster was covered with fleas and scratched
some of 'em off. We caught a couple and roasted 'em. We fed the
leftovers to a hungry bear.
"I was lying on my back under a big tree after eating and hap-
pened to look up into the branches. I reckon the giant had laid
down and rested under that same tree and got his hair tangled
among the limbs. He lost a strand way high in the tree, and I
climbed up and retrieved it. We used it as a rope to let ourselves
down over the cliff.
"About dusk on the third day I could tell by signs that we was
getting hot on the giant's trail."
Ash held up a hand. "Got a question," he announced. "Was the
giant a sign painter?"
Tom glared at him. "Not that kind of signs, dummy. It was
mostly odors. He was leaving his breath on the trees and boulders."
"How do you know it wasn't body odor?"
"I told you the monster had et two horses, and I know the
smell of horse shit. It had to be his breath. But no matter. I told
Shooting Bull that we better take it easy and be quiet. He agreed.
Then the ground started shaking, and I at first thought we was hav-
ing a little earthquake, but after thinking about it I knew that wasn't
it. The shaking was intermittent like a rhythm, and I knew the gi-
ant’s walking made it. That was the most scared I've ever been in
my life."
After a long silence Rex asked him what happened after that.
"Did you see the giant?"
Tom gave him a sour look. "What's that got to do with it? You
asked me what was the most frightening experience I ever had. I an-
swered your question."
 61

T h e Pan el

"Questions-questions-questions!" mused Ash. "Mankind has

always had a lot more questions than answers. I think that is the
chief characteristic of humans that separates us from the lower
animals."
"I think you're right about that," agreed Cap Thomas. "Many
years ago when I was on the staff of Scientific American we assem-
bled a panel of the best brains in the world to try to answer some of
the questions that have baffled mankind for years. I'll see if I can
remember some of the mysteries we tried to solve.
1. Who kicked sand in the face of Charles Atlas when he was
just a 97-pound weakling?
2. Were all of the goslings of Mother Goose by the same gan-
der?
3. Why do Irishmen have big feet?
4. Why does every traffic light always turn red just before you
reach the intersection when you're in a hurry to get home to go to
the bathroom?
5. Did little Virginia get pissed off at that editor after she
found out he had lied to her about Santa Claus?
6. What could possibly induce a Texan to lie?
7. Where was the Garden of Eden?
These are only a few of the more important ones that come to
mind."
"Did you ever come up with any of the answers?" Ash wanted
to know.
 62

"Only the last one. We debated this one four days and finally
reached an agreement. After a lot of bickering and heated argument
we all agreed that it was in Eden.
"Any time you get a bunch of eggheads together there is al-
ways a lot of ego that gets in the way. One of the panelists had to be
kicked off for abusive conduct, and two others was let go when it
was discovered they was writing books before a consensus was
reached. I never did get mine published. I tried to sell my book to
some publishers, but I soon discovered that they was more inter-
ested in selling their books to me."
 63

T w i st i n g T h e T al e Of M o t h er Go o se

Ray Savage took a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket. "Did
anybody bring paper?"
"What's the matter, Ray?" Floyd Jeffers asked. "Is Tom's
cooking getting to you already?"
"No, I mean writing paper."
"You getting homesick?"
"Yes, but that's not why I want the writing paper. Stasey's yarn
about his trained gander and Tom's mention of Mother Goose
stirred my poetic soul and inspired a poem. I want to get it down on
paper before I forget it."
"I don't have any writing paper, but we have plenty of toilet
paper. I have an idea it would be just the thing for your poem."
"Let's hear it," Cap invited. "You won't need to write it down.
I've got a memory like you won't believe. One time a few years ago I
even remembered my wife's birthday. She fainted and dang near
died. I never forgot it again."
"Does she still have birthdays?" Floyd asked.
"Only every five years."
"Women are funny like that. They won't go to the market to
buy food if the breeze is cool enough so they need a coat, but they
will walk five miles through a blizzard half naked to get to a beauty
shop. One time my wife had a face-lift, dyed her hair, and had a lot
of other stuff done to look younger. She looked like she had shed at
least twenty years. She seemed real pleased when I wanted us to go
to bed early, but the next morning when I asked what her name
was, she threatened to divorce me."
Cap nodded. "They're all alike. Okay, people, all in favor of
hearing Ray's masterpiece, burp."
 64

"That's easy enough after eating Tom's cooking," quipped Bill.

Maybe the poem will make us throw up and be good for us."
"Your enthusiasm overwhelms me," Ray said. "Now, if I can
deal with this lump in my throat, I shall honor you with the recital. I
don't have a title for it yet, and I don't want to hear any suggestions
from any of you, but here goes:

The little goose laid lots of eggs,

And I must say this with candor.
But she never became Mother Goose
Till after she met a gander."

The group, to a man, pretended to gag.

"That gives me an idea," Ash said. "Let's each draw a number
from a hat. There are nine of us here, and --"
"Hey, he can count!" shouted Mack Rogers.
"-- and we can take turns reciting Mother Goose rhymes, only
we have to give them a twist. We will give ourselves ten minutes to
organize our thoughts. Number one will lead off."
"Good idea," Tom agreed. "I'm afraid I've let my poetic talent
rust a bit since I ghost wrote for Ogden Nash."
"I always thought it was Poe you wrote for," Cap said.
"Him, too, but Nash was the last one."
They managed to find a scrap of blank paper and each took a
number. Kent Sheridan drew number one.
"Okay, get your crying towels ready," he said. "I give you fair
warning -- this is a two-eye tear jerker." He cleared his throat and
recited:
When Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch that H 2O
Everything went fine until
The poor kid stubbed his toe."

Ash stood and allowed that his poem would choke them up,
because it was even sadder than Kent's.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,
And his spring and summer were fair.
But the winter was cold, and Humpty was old,
And he yearned for much warmer air."

Floyd wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and honked his
nose loudly into it. Then, swallowing hard, he began:
 65

Mary had a little lamb.

Janet had roast beef.
When Leslie ordered bullfrog legs
Penny said 'Good grief!'"

Bill Stasey was next.

Jack Spratt could eat no fat,
So goes the ancient tale.
But some might doubt the truth of that.
What says his bathroom scale?"

"I don't know how much more of this I can take," Ray re-
marked, "but I've committed myself."
"If I know you," Bill kidded, "that's nothing compared to what
you're about to commit."
"Have me arrested, but first you gotta listen.
Fat Jack seesaws with Marjorie Daw
To earn his penny a day.
This question pops up, rude and raw:
How much does Marjorie weigh? "

Then came Mack's turn. "I’ve got the idea, but I need another
minute or two." After a slight pause he announced that he was
ready.
This little piggy went to market.
This little piggy stayed home.
This little piggy had roast pork.
He was a cannibal."

"Hey, wait a minute," Bill said. "I'll have to disqualify you.

That doesn't rhyme."
Mack held up the palm of his hand in a kind of stop sign.
"Free verse.

"You'll love this one," Rex announced.

That foxy old spider that sat down beside her
Knew where to find easy prey.
Being real wise, he knew swarms of flies
Would come where she left curds and whey."

"My turn," Cap announced. Prepare yourselves."

Rex placed his hands over his ears. "Okay, I'm ready."
 66

"Why didn't I think of that? Your rhyme gave me an earache.

Now get an earful of this:
When Simple Simon met the pie man
And sneaked a taste of the pie,
He managed to get one bite in his mouth,
But the rest ended up in his eye."

"Okay, Tom," Ray said, "let's have yours, but try to keep it
clean."
"Who, me? Shit fire, man, I've never uttered a dirty word in
my life. Well, anyhow, not since my mama washed out my mouth
with lye water for saying 'poot'."
"Don't try to kid me, Tom. I'd bet my varmint rifle you said
worse words than that a week before you were born."
"That was when she washed out my mouth. Okay, here goes:
The sheep are in the meadow, and the cows in the corn
Because of Little Boy Blue.
His dad came by and caught him asleep
And paddled his butt with a shoe."

"I propose we vote to determine the best of these high class

rhythmical compositions," suggested Bill Stasey. "The winner will be
entitled to eat the last of Tom's horse shit salad."
 67

A N ew Rel i g i o n

"Hey, get a load of this," Rex said to all in general and to no

one in particular. He was referring to an article in an old newspaper
that he had retrieved from a paper box that served as a wastebas-
ket. "Tom's friend Vile Bill Hiccup must have been reincarnated.
Some guy has sold passages to a new planet he says he saw in a vi-
sion. He claims he has had a divine revelation that an asteroid will
destroy the earth on the seventh day of August, 1991. That was
about four years ago. According to this article about five hundred
families sold everything they had and turned it over the guy."
"Did his vision come true?" asked Mack Rogers with a big
grin.
"Sure did," said Floyd Jeffers. "We've all been smashed to
smithereens."
"Old P.T. was right," Bill Stasey observed, "except now I think
it's two every minute."
"Even that might be a little conservative," Floyd suggested. "A
few years ago I came up with a new religion and was really cleaning
up, but I got caught in my own web. The inspiration came to me one
day when I was shooting billiards."
"Shooting billiards and a lot of something else, I'll wager," Bill
said.
"That came later. When pool balls scatter on the break, I rea-
soned, they don't do so randomly, as one might think. Each ball
goes to an exact place and stops according to the various factors
that exert influence on it. Those factors, force, direction, friction,
collision and so on, dictate exactly where each ball will come to
rest.
"That started a train of thought going in my mind, and a new
religion was born. The same laws of dynamics apply to every bit of
 68

matter in the entire universe. Other atoms that come in contact

with it influence each atom of matter.
"According to that theory, logic dictates that every snowflake,
for example, settles in a definite spot and could not have fallen
anywhere else. Pursuing the line of reasoning to its logical end, I
came to the startling conclusion that people are subject to the same
phenomena. It has been claimed that every birth is an accident of
chance and that the odds against anyone being born were tremen-
dous. But according to my grand theory the opposite is true. There
was no way it could have been otherwise.
"Now we are getting close to the religious part. If every atom
of matter since the beginning of creation has been buffeted this way
and that by other atoms, the same forces that cause the pool balls
and the snowflakes to settle in precise places form even our brains.
Therefore, even out thoughts are not controlled by us. That being
so, we are not responsible for our sins.
"I reasoned that, since most religions are based on some
means of our escaping the consequences of out misdeeds, this new
idea of mine might be marketable. I was right.
"I was always pretty good at selling, and a little polish mixed
with pseudo logic can convince a lot of people of just about any-
thing. I was becoming a wealthy man until--
"I had an old farm boy as my bookkeeper and business man-
ager. Everything was fine until one day my checks began bouncing. I
confronted the guy, and he readily admitted he had blown nearly all
the money on gambling, booze, women and every vice there is.
"I was ready to beat the livin’ hell out of him and have him ar-
rested, but he stopped me cold. 'Blame it on bouncing atoms,' he
said. I had no answer."
 69

T h e M y st er y o f t h e Rav en Feat h er

"Does any one of you fellers consider yourself a modern

Sherlock?" Tom Adler threw the question out and waited for an an-
swer. Floyd asked one in return. "What's the matter, Tom? Did
somebody steal your Preparation H?"
"Oh, no, nothing like that. I jis' wanna test your powers of de-
duction to see if you can figger out a mystery I solved one time."
"Oh, boy," Bill Stasey piped up, "Here we go. I can already
hear the violin interrupted by the sound of hansom wheels crunch-
ing on cobblestones. Did Holmes call you in to take over on a case
he gave up on?"
"For your information, young man, Holmes never had to
tackle a case as tough as this one. It involved a bunch of second
grade school kids. I was one of 'em."
"Interesting. I didn't realize you ever reached that level in
your education."
"That shows how much you know about me. I went straight
from second grade to senior at Yale."
"I thought you said you were a professor at Harvard."
"That was later. But that ain't got nothing to do with the mys-
tery when I was a second grader at Hog Wallow Grammar School
back in Skint Elbow, Alabama, population 46, counting ol' Crazy Eli.
"There was seventeen of us kids in the class until Hector
Klangpooker got booted out for sneaking spits of bakker juice down
his shirt sleeve during calculus study. That left fifteen."
"You must have been a whiz at math."
"You think I can't subtract? Hector was twice as big as any of
the rest of us, so he counted as two. But let us get on with the mys-
tery.
"It all started one rainy day when we didn't have no recess
and couldn't go outside to play. All we done that day was cutouts
on sheets of colored paper and paste them to make stuff like little
outhouses, crawdads, tadpoles, the Taj Mahal or anything else the
 76

kids could think of. Every now and then one of us would hold up
two fingers."
"You mean to get permission to go ---"
"No, not that. There was always a lot of chewing gum stuck
under the desk, and we would hold up the fingers so the teacher
could clean the gum off. She would always make us go all the way
to the outhouse and spit out the big gob of gum we crammed into
our mouths. One time after I got back in the room my tube of paste
was gone and a raven feather left in its place.
"Nobody seen it when it happened. If you're thinking a raven
flew in the window and left the feather, you're wrong. Now can any
of you come up with the right answer?"
Rex made a guess. "Was it the Invisible Man?"
"Nah, that was way before the Invisible Man appeared on the
scene. Anybody else got an idea? Remember this calls for logic and
deduction."
"Can't you give us more clues?"
"You've got the only clues you need."
"What about the used chewing gum?"
"It tasted real good, and it pissed me off to have to go dump
it. Anybody else? What about you, Mack?"
Mack shook his head. "I'm not much on the detective stuff.
My specialty is knitting sweaters for displaced snake charmers."
"Could it have been Frankenstein's Monster?" guessed Ray.
"Nope. Way off."
"How'd you come up with that?" asked Bill.
"I thought maybe some of his parts were coming loose and he
needed the paste."
"But what about the raven feather?"
"I hadn't got that far. I was gonna work on that later."
Kent had an idea. "Okay, here's my theory. The ghost of Poca-
hontas haunted the schoolhouse. She had more feathers than she
needed to put in her hair to help keep her wigwam, and she traded
one of them for the paste, which Captain John Smith needed to
keep his toupee in place."
"Good guess, but that ain't it. Pocahontas hadn't been born
yet."
Ash held up a hand. "I think I have the answer," he an-
nounced. "Was the teacher left handed? And did she always wear a
red dress with white polka dots and a green belt with a silver
buckle?"
 71

Ray Savage was impressed. "How the hell did you ever deduce
that, Ash? Does that really figure in the solution?"
"No," he replied, "but I thought she would look kind of cute
dressed that way and it would add a little something to the mys-
tery."
"How did you come up with the answer, Tom?" Rex said.
"Process of elimination. After considering every possibility
and eliminating them one by one, I seen that there was only one
way it could have been done. It had to be a raven flying in and
leaving the feather while everybody was taking a snooze."
"What would a raven need paste for?"
"Did I say the raven took the paste?"
"Didn't you?"
"You wasn't listening. I said my tube of paste was gone. I
found out later that Hector Klangpooker stole it."
"But you said no raven flew in through the window," Rex ob-
jected.
"It didn't. It flew in through the open door."
"Never more," croaked Ash.
 72

T h e St ar f i sh an d t h e Oy st er

Ray Savage sat staring at the ceiling. Bill nudged him. "What's
so fascinating about fly specks?"
" I was just thinking. Flies are probably the only creatures on
earth whose defecation falls up. No, what I was really thinking
about was the time several years ago when I had been married only
two years and this beautiful young neighbor woman almost wrecked
my marriage."
That statement caught the attention of the whole group. They
sensed that a spicy story was about to unfold. "Tell us about it,"
urged Bill.
"I read somewhere that a starfish can't pry an oyster open
immediately, but it is tenacious, and eventually the oyster tires and
can no longer resist. Then it is consumed. I found myself in the po-
sition of the oyster."
"Yeah, sure," Bill said with a knowing chuckle. "Of course the
neighbor lady was the starfish, and she managed to get her clutches
on you, but you resisted like hell. I mean, like hell you resisted."
"Would you like to finish the story?" Ray asked pointedly.
"Just let me guess how long it took her to get you in bed, then
I'll shut up. I'll guess about the length of time it took you to get to a
motel."
"Longer than that. It took us several minutes to register. No,
actually I was very happily married. Cheating on my wife wasn't
something I wanted to do. Even the thought of it was repugnant to
me. We were compatible in every way and very much in love.
 73

"I was working graveyard shift at Douglas Aircraft in Califor-

nia at the time, and I would get home about the same time the lady
would leave for her office each morning. She and her husband were
insurance agents, but they worked different hours and at different
offices.
"They lived in the same apartment complex as my wife and I
did, and we shared an underground parking facility. The first time I
spoke to her was the morning they moved in. She came into the ga-
rage to leave for work just as I was getting out of my car. We intro-
duced ourselves to each other and chatted only briefly. She was
strikingly beautiful, all the curves, and bulges in exactly the right
places and in the proper proportions. Her smile was enough to
cause a coronary in a lot of men, but I had everything I wanted or
needed right there in the house waiting for me.
"Some women seem to have been made for just one thing, and
she was one of them. The way she would give me a sidelong look
and provocative smile after about the third morning spoke vol-
umes. And that perfume! Wow! I mean it was wild, and it drove me
even wilder. Our little friendly chats became longer and longer.
Then when she would turn her back to walk to her car, I couldn't
help staring at her rear. I know she was aware of it, and I think she
deliberately made sure I got the full benefit of my ogling.
"Soon our conversations began to take on a little subtle teas-
ing. It wasn't so much what we said as what was left unsaid but
clearly understood. One morning she jokingly remarked, 'We've got
to stop meeting like this.'
"'Is your husband the jealous type?' I asked.
"'A little, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him.' Then she
gave me that come-on glance, and I felt my blood surge and a warm
sensation akin to a glow spread over me. My stomach muscles
tightened, and I guess I started trembling. The oyster was beginning
to yield to the pressure.
"'I think you're right,' I said. 'We shouldn't meet like this.
There must be a better place.' I felt guilty as hell, but at the same
time I wanted her to catch the ball and toss it back. She did.
"I made up some excuse to my wife for me to leave the house
for a couple of hours. It was the first time I had ever lied to her,
and I felt rotten through and through but tremendously excited.
The oyster was now wide open.
"She and her husband owned a beach house, and we had
agreed to meet there that very morning. Actually it was not a house
to live in, just a small one-room place to go and relax. I didn't plan
 80

on relaxing that morning. We didn't go in the same car, but we ar-

rived at about the same time.
"What I didn't know was that someone else was about to ar-
rive also. I had seen her husband but had never spoken to him. She
had mentioned that he was six foot-four and had done some profes-
sional boxing. That should have been a red flag to me, but when a
young dog is hot on the trail he will take the darndest chances and
to hell with the consequences.
"We had hardly closed the door behind us when it was opened
again, and her husband stood framed in the doorway. He was bare
from the waist up and built like Rambo. He looked to be ten feet
tall at that moment, and I suddenly shrank to midget size." Here
Ray paused to let the described scene have its full effect.
"And?" Rex said.
"No way did I need all that damned insurance they sold me."
 75

A u n t M at i l d a

"Who taught you how to cook, Tom?" Rex asked. "Let me

guess. Was it Dracula?"
"Nope, it was my great-aunt Matilda."
"Was she the same Matilda the Aussies waltz?"
"She never would say, but I think she always liked polkas bet-
ter. But cooking was her true love. Her favorite expression was, 'If
you can't beat 'em, throw 'em out and buy fresh ones'. She was a
nice old gal, but she hated my guts."
"You were nasty back then, too, huh? I guess some people
form their personalities early and stay the same all their lives."
"Yeah. I'll never forget the time she bought me a cruiser on
my fourth birthday."
"What kind of tricycle was it?"
"I don't recall, but it was a four-wheel drive model. No, actu-
ally it was a ship."
"Now, wait a minute, Tom. I thought you said she hated your
guts. Why would she buy you anything?"
"She hated my guts, but she loved everything else about me. I
was six when she bought me the ship."
"Didn't you say it was on your fourth birthday?"
"Right. I was six feet tall.
Aunt Tillie was a pool shark. She won the world champion-
ship."
"No kidding."
"Would I kid you?"
"What year did she win it?"
"Sometime between 1879 and 1880. I don't remember the ex-
act year. I do remember that she had twenty-two kids at the time."
"How old was she when she had all those kids?"
"Fourteen years old."
 76

"Twenty-two at age fourteen. How many kids did she finally

end up with?"
"I never counted 'em, but they was pure-bred goats, and I
used to have to milk 'em for her. She left 'em all to me in her will,
but I hated the damn things and sold 'em all to some phony priest
on a jungle island way out in the Pacific."
 77

U n c l e Sk eet l ep o p

Rex looked at Cap Thomas, who appeared to have something

on his mind that he wanted to share. "Cap," he said, "didn't you
have a rich foster uncle when you were growing up?"
"I was jist thinking' about ol' Uncle Skeetlepop Mugglethump.
Yeah, he was rich. Not only that, he was wealthy also. He was my fa-
vorite uncle."
Rex grinned. "Of course his being rich and wealthy was only
coincidental and had nothing to do with his being your favorite un-
cle."
"Not at all. He would have been my favorite if he had been
only rich. But what I was gonna tell you about was the time when I
was a kid--and I ain't talking' about no damn goat--his business was
kinda slow and he was barely making' a thousand dollars a minute,
He called me into his private den and asked me if I would like to go
with him on a world cruise.
"'You mean on a ship?' I sez.
"'I ain't talking' about no canoe,' he sez.
"'Heck yeah. I mean heck yes sir,' I sez. I always tried to be
extry respectful to Uncle Skeet. 'What countries will we visit?'
"'All of 'em. Maybe even more than that. We'll sail the seven
seas, and if that ain't enough, I'll order some new ones made. We
will stop off in Europe first. I'm negoshaitin' a deal to buy France.
I'm trying' to get 'em to throw in a couple of Cokes for good meas-
ure, so the deal might fall through. They offered one, and we're still
dickering'. They're awful shrewd boys to deal with, and I might have
to settle with splittin' the other Coke with 'em.'
"'Atta boy, Unc.' I sez. 'Hang in there and don't budge a drop.'
"He beamed at me when I said that. 'My boy,' he sez, 'you're
gonna make a great business man. I think I'll make you my partner.
We'll corner the whole dang doodlebug liver market.'
 78

"I reckon y'all can imagine how good I felt about that. I could
jis' picture myself strutting around and hearing' people say, 'There
goes the Doodlebug Liver King.'
"Did you ever take the cruise?" asked Rex.
"Shore did. We set sail from Boston Harbor and made our way
through all that tea floating around. We sailed for two days before
discovering we was headed inland instead of out toward the ocean
and had to turn around. Uncle Skeetlepop decided to take a short-
cut by way of Hawaii. He didn't say why, and I didn't ask. I guess it
must have had something to do with grass skirts and hula-hula,
'cause he kept carryin' on about it, whatever that was."
"Did you ever reach Europe?"
"No, we didn't. We stopped over at some tropical island way
out in the Pacific, and Uncle Skeetlepop left me on board while he
paid a visit to a priest who lived in a temple up on a mountain.
There he met a native girl by the name of Naomi and decided to
stay. I had to swim back. Took me most of two days."
"Really? That long? How come?"
"Stiff head wind. Also I spent some time trying to figure out
how to make love to a mermaid."
"Did you talk to the mermaid?"
"Yeah. We spoke to each other in Hawaiian. I said 'Aloha', and
she answered with a low 'Ha'.
"By the way, Tom," Cap said to the cook, "I brought along a
case of canned doodlebug livers. Maybe you'd like to fix some for
tomorrow."
"I would, but I planned my meals in advance, and tomorrow
we're having barbecued lizard gizzards."
Ray Savage had sat through the tale without comment, but
now he spoke. "Cap, I would be inclined to believe your story ex-
cept for one thing. I mean, everything is perfectly reasonable and
believable, but your timing is way off. You were only a kid when you
set sail. It was years and years later that I was there and met Naomi.
When you started out, she hadn't even been born."
"It was a slow ship," Cap said without a trace of a smile.
"You must have been pretty tired when you reached your
home shore," Rex suggested.
"Yeah, I did feel a little washed out. My girlfriend was waiting
on the beach for me when I waded ashore. We had a big fight."
"What about?"
"She insisted that I go swimming with her."
 79

T h e Bl o o d h o u n d

"Floyd," Rex prompted, "didn't you work for a bail bondsman

once upon a time?"
"Yeah, back when Hoover was director of the Federal Bureau
of Investigation."
"Ah, yes, ol' Herbert," Tom interjected. "I knew him person-
ally. Met him when we attended law school. We played mumblepeg
under a shade tree and made mud pies together after we gradu-
ated."
"Wrong Hoover," corrected Floyd . "Herbert was the one that
dam thing on the Colorado River was named for. Edgar was director
of the Bureau."
"So what? Herbie is the Hoover I palled around with. I never
met Eddie."
"You must have had some interesting experiences," Rex said to
Floyd. "What was your job exactly?"
"Tracking down criminals who posted bond and skipped. One
day I was in the office when a big tough-looking guy came in. He
had a horrible cut over his left eye. Evidently he thought he could
whup a small army all by himself and had took on about half the
F.B.I. force at the time of his arrest."
"Really? Federal agents arrested him? What had he done?"
"He mailed a letter with a phony stamp, and that made it a
federal case. The bondsman was filling out the form and asked him
if he had any identifying marks on his body. The guy points to the
cut and says, 'Yeah, this'n here.'
"The man's name was Gomez, although he didn't appear to be
Mexican."
"Musta been French," Tom said. "Or maybe Norwegian."
"Nope, he wasn't neither one. I found out later he was Scotch-
Irish from Poland. Anyway, he posted bail and right away took off
 86

for Mexico. My job was to find him and bring him back. I picked up
his trail and finally caught up with him in Acapulco.
"He had paired up with an ex-con who had been sentenced to
five years in Huntsville for first degree murder, but he was rich and
famous, and the court allowed him credit for the time he spent in
jail during the trial. The State had to refund him a couple of years.
"They was both unarmed, but I toted a gun and a badge that
came with a box of Crackerjack and got 'em cold while they was oc-
cupied with playing mumblepeg. But I didn't bring back my man."
"What happened?"
"Well, when I told him what I was there for, he said, 'No sabe,
Señor.'
"I said, 'What?' and he said, "That there means I don't speak
your damn lingo, Gringo, and I can't understand anything you say.'
Floyd spread his hands palms up and shrugged his shoulders.
"How you gonna arrest a feller if you can't communicate with him?"
 87

The Secret Door

The conversation began to lag, and Rex said to Tom. "I've

heard that when a man gets along in years he tends to live in the
past. Is that true, Tom? Do you ever look back?"
Tom considered a moment. "Yeah, I do. When you've survived
as many of life's battles as I have, you ain't got no other way to
look. You can't do much planning ahead. Hell, I don't even make my
bed till I'm ready to crawl in."
Rex looked at Jeffers. "How about you, Floyd?"
"I like to remember some of the people I knew as a lad. I think they
was a lot more polite and considerate of other folks' feelings in
them days. I remember one little town in particular. We never even
thought of locking our doors. Maybe we would steal a watermelon
now and then, but, heck, nobody's perfect. Besides, stealing a wa-
termelon and getting shot in the butt with a load of pinto beans in-
stead of lead shot was common practice, and nobody considered it
wrong. The shooter and the shootee would laugh about it and shake
hands at church the next day.
"I was thirteen before I ever heard the word crime. That was
the year a stranger moved into town. He claimed to be some kind of
scientist, but nobody knew what kind. He was about forty years of
age and had a gorgeous young wife, probably no more than eight-
een or twenty. The man kept pretty much to himself, but his wife
was a regular gadabout, although she didn't hardly ever talk about
her husband.
"Naturally there was always back yard rumors floating
around, but most didn't take them seriously. Then all of a sudden
 82

she wasn't seen no more, but the man wasn't the kind of guy you
walk up to and say, 'Hey, I ain't seen your pretty wife lately.'
"A week or so after that, another beautiful young girl was liv-
ing with the man. Then she, too, disappeared. This kind of hanky-
panky stuff went on until folks lost count of the women that would
live there a while and then disappear. Nobody suspected nothing
out of the way other than that the guy was just a womanizer who
couldn't keep the same woman for long.
"Then one day the first woman's picture appeared in the
newspaper. Her folks back east had stopped getting letters from her
and they wrote to the sheriff, asking him to investigate. He called
on the scientist and looked around but saw nothing suspicious.
Then the same thing that had happened with the first wife happened
with all the other women, and that's when folks began to wonder if
maybe something was not quite right, and so the sheriff went back
out and looked around in the woods but didn't find nothing there
either. But a young reporter from out of town wasn't so sure. He
decided to look into the matter on his own. He organized a bunch
of men to be deputized and go with the sheriff to make a more
thorough search of the place.
"They all came back and reported that they was unable to find
even one dang thing to arouse suspicion. They said they all figured
the girls was tramps who liked money and was willing to put up
with the old coot for a while but got tired of the guy and just took
off for parts unknown. They had all been pretty young, maybe no
more than eighteen. Maybe they wanted younger men.
“A kid who looked to be about ten had been listening in. He
stepped up to the reporter and said he would speak out on condi-
tion of notoriety. The reporter, thinking the kid meant anonymity ,
hustled him into a private conference room, seated him at a table,
and told him to wait a few minutes. Soon he was back with a big
ice-cream cone for the lad. Then he goes to his briefcase, pulls out
a note pad and pencil and seats himself across the table from the
kid and begins his questioning. 'Have you seen or heard some-
thing?' he asked with his pencil poised.
"'Sure. Lots of things.'
"'Tell me about it.'
"'Tell you about what?'
"The kid had appeared real bright at first, but now the re-
porter wasn't so sure, and he framed his questions about the scien-
tist and the missing women a little more carefully.
 83

"The boy licked his scoop of cherry vanilla and said, 'Oh, I
don't know anything about that.'
"As I recall, the kid's name was Steve Allen -- or some such.
"The explanation the group of men offered didn't satisfy the
young reporter. Why would all of the girls suddenly stop writing to
their parents? Being new at the business, he was hungry for a sensa-
tional story, and so he questioned the sheriff and all the others who
had searched the place. 'Are you real sure you looked everywhere
in that house?' he asked them.
"They all said they was absolutely certain. 'Every square inch,'
they swore. 'Well, there was this one room in the basement we did-
n't go in,' one feller finally admitted.
The reporter was flabbergasted. "A whole damn room, and
you didn't even look in? What the hell kind of a search you call
that? Why didn't you go in?'
"They looked at him like they thought he was crazy. 'We
couldn't go into that room,' the sheriff said.
"'Why? Was the door locked? Hell, you had a search warrant.
You could have busted the door down."
"'Maybe it was locked, and maybe it wasn't. We didn't ask. But
it had a sign on it that said, KEEP OUT.'"
 84

T h e T h i r t een t h N o t ch

"Ray," Floyd said in his deep baritone voice, "your experience

with the insurance gal reminds me of something that happened in
the little town where I lived when I was about yea-high to a grass-
hopper's armpit.
"A local feller married a beautiful young blonde from some-
where back east, Hyannis Port, I think. I mean, she was a real head
turner anywhere she went. The next day after the wedding the
young man thinks to himself, 'Hey this here's too dang good to
leave unguarded.' But he couldn't be with her all the time, 'cause he
had a job at a synthetic buffalo chip factory.
"The young bride was a sweet thing and no doubt would have
remained faithful to her husband, but he was the suspicious, jealous
type and didn't trust nobody. However, the damn chastity belt he
installed on the poor gal turned out to have the opposite of its in-
tended effect. It infuriated her and made her kinda mad, but she
wore it all the same. It also became a challenge.
"She always done a lot of exercises and kept her good shape
in good shape. One day while the husband was at work he started
thinking about what was waiting for him and home, and he ups and
leaves early. When he got to his barn to unsaddle his horse, he no-
ticed a strange horse in the corral still saddled and bridled, so he
sneaks up to the house and peeks into the window just in time to
see his bride do a Houdini and slip the chastity belt while a man he
knew sat waiting patiently, or more likely, a little impatiently.
"Without saying a word the guy turns around and gets back on
his horse and goes into town and buys himself a brand new Colt .45
with pearl grips. Pretty soon the guy he seen in the room with his
wife ain't seen around town no more. There were no witnesses, and
the man wasn't even suspected of doing anything rash. But when a
lot more men mysteriously disappeared the local sheriff started
 85

wondering about it. But he didn't have a clue and couldn't make no
arrest without some kind of evidence.
"Then a young handsome detective the sheriff had met at a
lawman's convention in Chicago moved into town, and the sheriff
deputized him and put him on the case. He couldn't come up with
nothing either until one day he noticed that the woman's chastity
belt had the same number of notches in it that was in the husband's
gun handle. It was also the same number of the twelve men who had
disappeared without a trace.
"Today that deputy sheriff is just another notch in an old
rusty six-gun. I ain't sure about the chastity belt. I never seen it."
 86

A Hobo Tr ip

"I was once a young boy," Tom began and let it hang.
Rex slapped his thigh. "Now that's a real revelation. I never
would have suspected. I'm surprised you can remember."
"Oh, I remember it as if it was only ninety years ago. We was
living' on a farm and times was real tough. We was so poor all the
houseflies deserted us. One kid bragged that his family still had
some in their house. All we had to eat was red ants, and even they
was kinda skinny. My mama had a rich old maid sister living' in St.
Joseph, Missouri, but they hadn't seen nor wrote to each other in a
long time, and Mama didn't know her address. She was desperate,
because she didn't have no snuff money, and when Mama had to go
without her dip of snuff for a day or two, she always got a little
cranky. She sent me hitch-hiking to St. Jo hoping I could find Aunt
Spittlenok Gonzalez, her rich Irish sister, and beg for some snuff
money and maybe a little extra to buy something to fatten up the
red ants."
"Didn't you get stung a lot while you were in a red ant bed
having your meals?"
"Oh, they tried to sting us, but as soon as they touched our
skin they would keel over dead. I made it to St. Joseph in two days
by hitching a ride on a wagon load of ---"
"Let me guess," Rex interrupted. "Synthetic buffalo chips."
"No, this was a wagon load of the real thing. Anyhow, when I
got there all the money I had was twenty-two cents I had found that
morning while on my hands and knees picking up red ants for
breakfast.
"St. Joseph was the biggest town I was ever in, and nobody
seemed to know Aunt Spittlenok. Everybody I asked kinda snickered
and shook their heads. I don't know what they thought was so damn
funny about a ragged kid with red ants on his breath asking a sim-
ple question.
 87

"I wandered around, walking the streets, feeling as out of

place as a virgin Sunday school teacher in a whorehouse. Then I fell
into a piece of luck. A nice old lady seen me walking around all
teary-eyed and hungry looking and asked me my name and where I
lived. I told her my sad story and that I was trying to find my Aunt
Spittlenok Gonzalez.
"The lady's eyes opened wide and then her expression turned
sad. 'I knew your aunt,' she said.
"'Knew?'
"'Yes, poor thing. She passed away just last week.' When I
turned away and was gonna start back home, she stopped me. 'Tell
you what,' she said, 'I'm on my way to Paris, and my ship is leaving
in about half an hour, but I want to help you. I don't carry cash but
I have a few hundred dollars in my jewelry box at home. There is no
one there, but I left a note for my nephew telling him where he can
find my house key. He won't be there to look after things for me
until Tuesday.'
"Hold on, Tom," Rex said. "An ocean liner was sailing to
France from St. Joseph, Missouri?"
"Big rain. Anyhow, she took a notebook from her purse and
wrote her address on a leaf and gave it to me. 'You are an honest
boy, aren't you?'
"'Yes ma'am.'
"'I knew it. I can tell. Go to my house and read the note I
taped to the front door. Get the key and go on in. You will find the
jewelry box right on top of the dresser in the bedroom. Take the
money but be sure you put the key back where you found it.'
"'Then she kissed me and almost puked when she got a whiff
of my breath. Then she smiled, patted me on the head, and said
goodbye.
"Feeling a lot better about things, I went to her house. It was a
big white house on a big lot with manicured lawns and flowerbeds. I
couldn't hardly believe my good luck. Now I would be able afford
catsup to go with the ants, or so I thought until I read the note. It
was addressed to Johnny, telling him that the key was in her jewelry
box on top of the dresser and to be sure to put it back when he left.
"I was gonna write a note on the other side of the one she left,
thanking her for her kindness but that I had thought it over and de-
cided I wouldn’t take advantage of her generosity. But I didn't have
a pencil. Then I remembered I had passed a blind man selling pen-
cils on the street corner a block away. I took one from him and
went back --"
 88

"Wait a minute, Tom," Rex said. "You stole a pencil from a

blind man?"
"Well, heck, the guy had a lot of them and wouldn't miss one
measly little old pencil. No, actually I made a down payment on one
and arranged to pay off the balance in easy installments."
"I'll bet you defaulted on the first payment."
Tom bowed his head in shame. "Yeah," he admitted, "I never
did finish paying for that pencil, and now my credit is so bad all the
merchants demand a cosigner even when I offer to pay cash.
"Well, boys," he concluded, "that's the story of bad luck for
me and my family and even worse luck for a lot of red ants."
 89

PA RT 2

W I LD OT I S
 91

M eet i n g Ot i s

“Do you know any good bass fishermen?” I asked the bait and
tackle store attendant.
“What kind of bass—largemouth, small mouth, stripers, or
what?”
“I had largemouth in mind.”
The guy rang up three sales on the cash register before he re-
turned his attention to me. “Yeah,” he said, “I know several. There’s
old Wild Otis, Tom Wilson, Jack Beauchamp—“
“Uh, did you say ‘Wild Otis’?” I interrupted. I had never heard
the name before, but it sort of jumped out at me and intrigued me.
“Yeah, that’s right. Do you know him?”
“No, but tell me about him. Does he know his stuff?”
“I’d have to say he’s the best bass man in this area—certainly
the most colorful and interesting. He is pretty popular around here.
Everybody likes Otis. He claims there are no strangers—‘Jist friends
I ain’t never met yet,’ he says.”
“Sounds like quite a fellow. I’m curious about the ‘Wild’ part
of his handle. How did he come by that?”
The man grinned. “You will understand once you meet him.
About the only thing he is a stranger to is truth.”
“You mean he is a liar?”
“Only in fun. He has been known to mix a little ‘taurian defe-
cation’ in with the wild stories he likes to tell, but if he tells you
something as fact in seriousness, you can put it in the bank.”
I was becoming more interested all the time. A dedicated bass
fisherman who is colorful, interesting, and spins tall tales might be
just the ticket.
“What does Wild Otis do for a living?”
 92

The man took a card from the counter. “He’s a fishing guide.
Here’s his business card. If you want to call him, usually you can
catch him home at about six in the evening,”
I read the card. “Otis W. Dixon, eh? Does the ‘W.’ stand for
‘Wild’?”
“No, I think it’s William. I take it you’re a stranger here in
Hardwood.”
“Yeah. Drove in about an hour ago. Say, how did this town ever
get its name anyway? Shucks, I’ll bet there’s not a hardwood tree with-
in a thousand miles of this place.”
“Actually, I think that’s the reason for the name. I know it
sounds a little ironic, but the story goes that a wagon train stopped
here back during the gold rush days, and the people found wood
for campfires so hard to come by they called the place Hardwood.
Of course at that time there was neither a town nor lake here—just
a barren spot of desert on the banks of the Colorado River.”
“I see. When I first drove into town and saw the name, I
thought it was like naming a town in Siberia ‘Bananaville’ or some
such. By the way, I’m Chips Roper, and I appreciate your informa-
tion and help. I really want to meet this Wild Otis.”
The man extended a hand. “I’m Ted Walker. Are you a fisher-
man?”
“Oh, no. I intend to write articles for outdoor magazines, es-
pecially about fresh water bass fishing, and I’d like to talk with
someone who knows what he is doing. Hopefully he will take the
time to explain his methods and techniques.”
“Well old Otis can explain just about all there is to know
about fishing, but if you go out with him it’s gonna cost you.”
“No problem there. I just hope I don’t have to wait too long to
get started.”
“Now that might be a problem. He’s nearly always booked
pretty far in advance. How long have you been writing?”
“Not long.”
“Ever been published?”
“To be honest, I haven’t even started yet. I decided to take a
crack at it last week after I was forced to quit my office job.”
“Forced to quit? You mean you got canned?”
“No, it wasn’t that. I liked my job until I was forced to retire
because of oil and boredom—in that order.”
Walker just looked at me and waited for an explanation.
“I was satisfied with my job and my lot in life—until they
struck oil on some property I own. Then after the big checks
 93

started rolling in I began to be bugged by things I had hardly even

noticed before. The air conditioner was never set to suit me, the
wastebasket was always full, and my secretary had big ankles.
Things got so bad I just had to get out.”
Walker slapped the counter with his hand. “You got it, man. If
I had a couple of oil wells, I don’t think I could take any more of
this damned Arizona heat.”
After getting directions to the docks, I sauntered down to the
lake just to look around. Otis was out with clients, but I had no
trouble spotting the covered slip in which he housed his bass boat.
Just as Ted Walker had said, there was this beautiful sign done in
gold leaf and mounted on the neat boathouse. FORT NOXIOUS, the
sign read. It made no sense to me at the time, but the next morning
when I saw his boat I understood. The name, also lettered in gold
leaf, was FOOL’S GOLD.
I chatted with several local fishermen, most of whom knew
Wild Otis Dixon. Invariably they grinned when I first mentioned his
name. Then I returned to my motel and marked time until seven
o’clock. I wanted to give Otis time to clean up and have dinner be-
fore giving him a call.
He answered on the third ring. I stated my name and ex-
plained briefly what I had in mind. “Why shore I’ll talk to you about
bass fishin’,” he said in a rather high-pitched voice and a pro-
nounced drawl. “As for fishin’ with me, though, that’s a horse of a
different flavor. I have to charge for takin’ folks out, and I’m booked
up for about a month. Sometimes I get a cancellation, and I could
work you in then, but I never know when that’s gonna happen. You
bein’ a writer and all, you prob’ly don’t figger on payin’ nothin’. I
jist cain’t afford to take you out for free. I got expenses same as other
business men, and I gotta charge—“
“Hey, hold on,” I said. “I don’t expect you to take me fishing
free of charge. In fact I’ll be happy to pay you far more than your
usual fee if we can work something out.”
There was a slight pause before he answered. “We-l-l-l, I ain’t
never had nothin’ like that throwed at me before. Golly-bum, I
reckon I’ll have to think on that a mite. Tell you what— Come on
over and let’s kick it around a little and see what we can work out.”
I followed his directions to a small frame house near the lake.
It. like the boathouse, was neat and the lawns well kept. I knocked,
and a short and slender man of about forty opened the door. He
had a thin hooknose and a full head of black hair with a low hair-
line. Deep smile tracks creased his face, but otherwise I saw few
wrinkles.
 94

“You are Wild Otis Dixon I presume,” I said and wondered if I

had committed a social error. He might not be too fond of the
‘Wild’ epithet.”
“Well, I ain’t Wild Lady Godiva,” he replied with a big friendly
grin. “Come on in, Roper, before you get a frostbite. (The outside
temperature hovered around 100 degrees F.) “Pull up a stump and
set yourself down before you faint and fall in it. What would you
like to drink?”
“A soda or lemonade would be fine. I’m not much for alco-
holic beverages.”
“Makes two of us. How about a big frosty glass of Coke?”
“Sounds good to me.”
I sat on the couch and glanced around the room while I waited
for him to return from the kitchen. Everything was clean and or-
derly. I saw no photos of women or children or anything to indicate
that a woman lived there. Paintings of outdoor scenes hung on a
wall, and outdoor magazines lay on the coffee table. I had the im-
pression, later confirmed, that Wild Otis Dixon lived alone.
“So you’re a writer, huh?” he said after handing me my drink
and sitting beside me. “Who have you ever writ for? Don’t recollect
ever seeing your name in any of my magazines.”
“Perhaps I should explain my situation a little further. I’m re-
tired and well off financially; so money is no problem. I haven’t be-
gun to write yet, and being a tyro, I can’t just walk up to the likes of
Ricky Green, Tom Mann, Paul Elias, Roland Martin, or any of the fa-
mous bass men and say, ‘Hey, I want to go fishing with you.’ Al-
though I’m sure they’re all nice and not snobs, I wouldn’t stand
much chance. Heck, everybody and his dog want to fish with them.
So before I can hope to hobnob with those boys, I figure I’ll have to
pay my dues and establish myself as a writer. That’s why I’m willing
to pay well for the chance to associate with someone such as you,
someone with a lot of bass savvy.”
“Where do you hail from, Mr. Roper?”
“Suppose we dispense with the formalities. Call me Chips. I’m
from the little town of Anson, west of Ft. Worth and north of
Abilene.”
“You mean you’ve come all the way out here jist to meet a
bass man, when there’s scads of good lakes in your area? How
come?”
“Okay, fair question. There is some property out here I want
to have a look at, and I have been wanting to see the Colorado River
lakes anyway.”
 95

“So you decided to skin two birds with one stone. O.K., what’s
your proposition?”
“I want to make a deal to go out with you and your clients. I
won’t do any fishing, and I’ll try to stay out of your way. All I want
is a story—anything that might be of interest to outdoor people. I’ll
pay you double your usual fee if you can arrange it.”
“Holy buffalo calf! Man, you’re really serious, ain’t you? Don’t
know how that’s gonna set with my customers, but I reckon there
ain’t no harm in trying.”
“Good. Next question—when do I start?”
“Can you be here at daylight in the morning?”
“I certainly can. I’ll write you a check right now. Just tell me
how much to make it out for.”
“No, we better wait. I don’t know if the customers are gonna
cotton to the idea. Besides, you might decide there jist ain’t nothin’
worth writing about.”
“I’ll find something to write about, all right. You just catch
some bass and tell me how you outsmarted them, and leave it up to
me.”
“Now that you’ve brung it up, let’s get a few things straight
about bass. I reckon you have heard all your life that to catch a
bass you gotta think like one. Well, that’s a lot o’ hawgwash. Bass
don’t think—they react. They ain’t got the gumption to size up a
situation and figger out what to do about it. Everything they do, be
it eating, courting, migrating, or just taking a siesta, they do it be-
cause instinct makes ‘em do it. In other words, they don’t think of a
few moves in advance and choose which one they figger will work
out better for ‘em. That’s what a good bass angler does. He knows
what makes a bass tick. Even before he goes out on the water, he’s
observing and thinking and asking himself questions. What is the
weather like? Cloudy? Bright sunshine? Is the water clear, or
stained? What is the water temperature? Is there a thermo cline?
Which way is the wind blowing? By the time he gets to where he
wants to fish, he’s got most of the answers. Then he checks the bot-
tom for depth and to determine what is down there in the way of
structure, such as weeds, rocks, sand, mud, brush, gravel, moss or
trash. He stores all that in his noggin, and THEN he selects the lure
most likely to do the job. Remember, a lure is only a tool, and each
one is designed to do certain things. If you think there is a magic
lure, forget it. There ain’t no sich animal.”
“Man!” I said with genuine admiration, “there’s a lot more to
fishing than meets the eye, isn’t there?”
 96

“You ain’t heard nothin’ yet. After we get into this thing and if
you are still itching to learn, I’ll explain about migration routes,
mapping, interpretation of structure, controls like depth, speed,
line size, color, and other stuff. Yeah, there’s a lot to successful
fishing, and it can be summed up in word —knowledge. You gotta
understand why a bass does what it does, what the conditions are at
the time, and get it all together. That comes with study and experi-
ence.”
“You are whetting my interest more all the time. Maybe I’ll do
more than just write about it after all. But that can wait. I don’t
want to press my luck. Now about the clients—are you going to con-
tact them first, or should I just show up and hope for the best?”
“Show up and leave the rest to me. By the way, Chips, where
are you staying?”
“I have a motel room across the river.”
“You mean you gotta drive all the way up to the bridge? Heck,
you don’t have to do that. Way too much driving, and motels are
expensive. I got this extry bedroom that ain’t being used. Bring your
things with you in the morning and stay with me while you’re here.
How long you figgering on being in town?”
“I don’t have any set time. My wife and daughter are visiting
her mother, and there’s no pressure on me to get back home.”
“Then it’s settled. I won’t charge you for the room, and we
can talk bassing every night after we come in.”
 97

I v o r y an d Fl o r a

Otis was up and waiting for me the next morning at daylight,

and I had to chuckle at his appearance. His old-fashioned dress
pants were tight and a little too short, and his shoes looked as
though he had retrieved them from an attic in Dogpatch. From his
appearance one might have suspected that he had come from there
also. Later I realized the guy was an actor, deliberately exaggerating
the hillbilly aspect of his character.
“Come on in, Chips,” he said, holding the door open for me.
“Looks like we got us a little windstorm this morning. Had your
breakfast yet?”
“Just a cup of coffee at the motel. I thought we would stop at
a coffee shop on the way. I’m buying.”
“My customers will be waiting for me at the dock, but I think
it’s gonna be too rough to take the boat out right away. If it’s all the
same to you, we’ll pick ‘em up and take ‘em to breakfast. I’ll do the
buying.”
We drove to “Fort Noxious” and parked. Soon a taxi deposited
his customers at the slip. There were two of them, one a gorgeous
redhead and the other an equally beautiful blonde. The redhead was
dressed entirely in yellow, and the blonde in white except for a red
patch in the shape of a heart over her left breast.
We got out of the car, and the girls stood there in the stiff
breeze waiting for us to approach. I could not decide which one
looked sexier.
“Hi. Are you Otis?” The redhead addressed the question to
me.
Otis extended his hand. “I’m him. This here’s Chips. Right nice
to meet y’all.” He shook their hands vigorously.
“I’m Flora, and this is Ivory, “ said the redhead. “She claims to
be ninety-nine and forty-four one hundredths per cent pure, but
don’t you believe it.”
 98

“You don’t say! Well now lemme see. ‘Cording to my calc’lations,

that leaves a impurity of fifty-six one hunnerds per cent. I want to
know about that.”
“That you will have to find out for yourself.”
“Don’t let the name fool you,” chimed in Ivory. “She’s a lot
more fauna than flora.”
I stood silently wondering what kind of fishing trip this would
turn out to be, or if there would be one at all. I had a feeling that
my new friend was playing a joke one me. These “customers”
probably were hookers whom he had called after I had left his
place, and they had no intention of going fishing.
Otis gazed out over the choppy lake. “Golly-bum! It shore
looks rough out there. I think we are gonna have to wait ‘til this
here dang wind dies down a little bit. My boat isn’t no Queen Mary,
and them whitecaps is higher than a tomcat’s back in a pen full of
bulldogs. What say we go find ourselves a nice booth in a coffee
shop ‘til it lets up a mite?”
The girls enthusiastically agreed. Ivory slithered up to me and
linked her arm in mine. “That sounds good to me. How about you,
Honey?”
We got into Otis’s car and drove to the Angleworm Café. Ivory
snuggled up to me in the back seat. “This is better than any old
fishing trip, anyway. Don’t you think so?” She slipped an arm
around me. “Is Chips your real name?”
“Nickname,” I replied, trying to quell the hot shivers and cold
chills playing tag up and down my spine.
“How did you come by it? No, let me guess. You are a Vegas
gambler.”
“Nothing like that.”
“Oh, I know. You were a prize fighter and always down—you
know—the chips are down.”
“Way off.”
“Then I give up,” she cooed and snuggled even closer. “I guess
you’re just going to have to tell li’l ol’ Ivory.”
“When I was a kid I could chop more wood than all the other
boys my age. How’s that for glamour?”
“Why, Honey, I think that’s real glamorous.” She began to run
her hand over my face and other parts of my anatomy. I thought of
my wife and daughter. I’ve got to put a stop to this monkey busi-
ness, I thought. This could get out of control in a hurry. “You know,
Ivory,” I sighed, “you remind me of my wife. Would you like to see a
snapshot of her? I carry one of my little daughter also.”
 99

She removed her arm and unsnuggled. “Your wife is a lucky

woman.” Her voice no longer oozed honey. “Most guys I know
wouldn’t let a wedding band even slow them down.”
 100

Hot Air

There was about a dozen patrons in the coffee shop, one of

them a big man in cowboy garb. We could hear his loud voice even
before we got inside. As we came in he stared at us and then fo-
cused his attention on Otis. Striding over, he looked him up and
down, his eyes coming to rest on the “Li’l Abner” shoes. “Well, I’ll
be a suck-egg mule!” he said in a voice calculated to draw the atten-
tion of everyone in the room. “I do believe we got us a gen-u-wine
Okie here. How about it, Okie? Did you remember to wipe your
shoes so’s you don’t smell up the place?” He sniffed and made a
face. “Naw, you didn’t. I ain’t never yet met a Okie with enough
manners to do that. You can always tell a Okie by the smell of pig
on him.”
All eyes were on Otis. I tensed, not knowing how he would re-
act. “Let me guess,” he said unruffled. “Texas. Right?”
“Mighty-come-a-tootin’ I’m a Texan. Tell me, Okie, how come
all you Okies are so dadburn ignert? I ain’t never seen one that was
smart enough to tell an elephant from a potfer.”
Otis grinned. “What’s a potfer?” I was surprised that he would
bite at that old joke.
“To pee in!” The Texan roared in exultation as though he had
just scored a smashing victory. Slapping his leg with his Stetson, he
continued to guffaw as he looked around to be sure everyone ap-
preciated his brand of humor.
 101

We seated ourselves in a booth, and Tex followed, still laugh-

ing. Otis waited for him to settle down. “I ain’t never gonna say
nothing derogatorious about no man from Texas,” he said soberly.
“It was a Texan what saved my hide one time when I was flying a hot
air balloon over the desert in southern Arizona. I got caught in a
wind that took me over a hunk of the ruggedest real estate I ever
seen. Nothing for miles around but thorn bush, catclaw, and cholla
cactus. The dern stuff was so thick that a jackrabbit would o’ had
trouble navigating through it. Then my dang burner went out on
me, and I couldn’t light it again. Man, I was really sweating, ‘cause if
I had o’ landed in that stuff I would o’ been in big trouble.”
“Yeah?” Tex had become serious, no doubt wanting to hear
about the Texas hero. “What happened?”
“I had a Texan in the basket with me, and he started bragging
about Texas, and pretty soon he was putting out more hot air than
the burner ever did.”
The patrons, most of whom knew Otis, had been listening in-
tently, and now they exploded in laughter and applause. Tex whirled
to glare at them, and when he turned back to Otis his face was
again flushed but this time not with mirth.
“And you know,” Otis continued, “we went around the world
three times before I could shut him down long enough to land.”
The Texan’s jaw muscles tightened, and he stood speechless,
glaring down at Otis. I was uneasy, afraid the big guy was going to
crush my friend’s jaw with a huge fist. Grinning, Otis calmly stood
and proffered a hand. “Hey, man, all in fun, huh?”
Tex spurned the friendly gesture, spat on the floor, turned on
his boot heel, and stalked out the door. The audience applauded
again.
I looked at the little man, who was still grinning. “Are you
really from Oklahoma?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Near Waco,” he replied, his charming bucolic grin becoming
even wider.
 102

I n t h e Bo at W i t h t h e Gi r l s

We had breakfast and sat listening to Otis entertain the girls

and me with more wild yarns until the wind let up, which to every-
one’s delight, was about ten o’clock. Flora and Ivory actually
wanted to go fishing, but to this day I’m not sure who paid whom.
Otis fitted us with life jackets. He always insisted that each
passenger don one. Then he passed around a bottle of sunscreen,
explaining that he didn’t want us coming back “looking like big ol’
red crawdads.”
“And if it starts getting too hot out there,” he added, “we will
hightail it back in. I don’t want nobody passing out from heat pros-
titution.”
Otis had insisted that I do some fishing, and I began to assem-
ble my rod and reel that I had bought that morning on the way to
his house. He watched with amusement as I fumbled. “I think you
better use my equipment, Chips,” he said.
I felt a bit hurt. “What’s wrong with mine? This isn’t dime
store tackle by any means. I paid darn good money for this stuff.”
“Yeah, I can see it ain’t junk, but you don’t put a bait casting
reel on a fly rod.” I used his spinning reel and rod.
We sped out to a quiet cove and dropped anchor. “Fishing
might be a little on the slow side today,” Otis predicted, “what with
the cold front last night and the high skies this morning.”
 103

“What do you mean, ‘cold front’?” I scoffed. “When the tem-

perature drops down to eighty-five here in June, you call it a cold
front, I suppose.”
“Well all right, ‘weather front’ if that suits you better. Point is,
it usually turns bass off.”
He certainly was right. We tried dunking nightcrawlers and
minnows for an hour without so much as a nibble. Then we moved
to another spot where there was shade and anchored again. The re-
sults were the same, but at least we were more comfortable.
“Why do they call you ‘Wild Otis’?” Flora wanted to know.
“Well,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye, “you know people.
Some folks seem to doubt me at times, especially when I try to ex-
plain some of my important scientifical discoveries. Like when I dis-
covered that sunspots, what the educated dudes call solar flares,
mess up a fish’s navigatorial system, and they get all bumfuzzled
and disornamented and meander around all over the lake. That
makes ‘em awful hard to catch and explains why fishing is so dad-
gum tough sometimes when it ort not to be.” I confess I was just as
gullible as were the girls and believed him.
I noticed that Ivory had been peering down into the water for
some time. “Is the water always this clear?” she asked Otis. “I can
see all the way to the bottom.”
“Not always. Sometimes a lake will bloom, and the water turns
real green.”
“What makes it bloom?”
“I dunno. I think the water gets full of tiny orgasms.”
The girls erupted into hysterical laughter. Otis looked up
quickly. I’m sure the puzzled and innocent look on his face was
faked. (Later my suspicions were confirmed when I read an article
he had written for an outdoor publication. Obviously a well-
educated person had written it. Also in our private conversations he
dropped the yokel role.)
After another hour of futility, Otis rummaged in a tackle box
labeled LAST RESORT and pulled out a stethoscope and a can of
ground red pepper. “When nothin’ else don’t work,” he announced,
“and I ain’t sure if there’s any fish down there, I got this here sure
way of telling for certain.” He proceeded to sprinkle pepper into
the water and after a moment placed the instrument over his ears
and submerged to sensor over the side. After listening intently for
about a minute, he shook his head.
“What on earth are you doing?” asked Flora.
 104

“Listening for sneezes. I don’t hear none, so we’re wasting our

time here.”
After talking it over we decided to give up and go back in. Re-
turning to the Angleworm, we had lunch and chatted a while.
“Would you fellows like to come over to our motel for a few
drinks?” Flora suggested. Otis looked at me. I hesitated, wondering
how I could refuse gracefully. Now I’m as red-blooded as the next
man, but when I had said my wedding vows, I meant every word.
Ironically, it was Ivory who came to my rescue.
“Let’s go, Flora,” she said. “I don’t think Chips’ wife and
daughter would approve.”
We parted company, and as far as I was concerned, Ivory re-
mained ninety-nine and forty-four one-hundredths per cent pure.
 105

Cr ab b y W o m an

The following morning the clients, a man and his wife in their
sixties, were an hour late. When they drove up in a new Cadillac, the
man got out and walked around the car to open the door for his
wife. A roll of flab spilled over his belt. The woman was thin, wrin-
kled, and wore too much makeup.
Otis, in his “Dogpatch clothes, introduced himself and ex-
tended a hand, which the man shook but the woman stiffly de-
clined. After introducing me and explaining my presence, Otis of-
fered to reduce his fee by half if that arrangement would be agree-
able with them.
“Yes, of course,” the man, Elmo Pierson, agreed. Then he
turned to Edith, his wife. “”Is that all right with you, Sweetheart?”
Unsmiling, she only half nodded. Frowning, she looked at the bass
boat. “Is that what we are going out in? I expected a cabin cruiser. I
would think, with the price we’re paying for a silly fishing trip, we
would be entitled to more comfort.”
Embarrassed, Elmo tried to explain why a bass boat is built the
way it is. “Very well,” she said with an exaggerated sigh of resigna-
tion. “let’s go and get it over with.”
The effects of the cold front (if that is the proper term) car-
ried over, and we encountered the same conditions as we had the
previous day. The couple tried live bait without success. After a few
minutes Edith put her tackle away and sat glumly with arms folded.
 106

“Don’t you want to fish, Sweetheart?” Elmo asked. “Here, let

me put on a fresh worm.”
“No, I don’t want to fish.”
“Maybe a frisky minnow—“
“I said I DON’T WANT TO FISH!”
Elmo mopped his perspiring round face. “Do you want to go
back in?”
“No, you go ahead and have your fun. This was your idea. En-
joy it.”
Fat chance, I thought. I had never seen her come close to
smiling. Elmo, desperately trying to salvage what he could of the
situation, turned to Otis. “Don’t you know where there’s a honey
hole where we might have more success?”
“Funny you should mention honey hole. Yeah, I used to have a
dandy, and that was exactly what it was— a honey hole. A secret
spot it was that nobody else knowed about but me. I could always
figger on catching a mess o’ bass there even on days like this here
when nobody else wasn’t catching nothing. But,” he added with a
sigh, “it got all messed up.”
“How? What happened to it?” Elmo had taken the bait.
“For years I always done real good there. Then some dude put
out a bunch of beehives on the shore next to it. Well, sir, the dang
bees would get all loaded down with nectar, and a lot of ‘em would
fall into the water, and the bass would gobble ‘em up. Well, that
went on for a long time, maybe a year or more. That caused the
dadburn bass to develop a sweet tooth, and the only way I could get
‘em to bite was by dipping my worms in honey. Worked real good
for a while, too. Then an awful thing happened. Real sad.”
He paused, and again Elmo bit. “What happened?”
“The pore critters all developed sugar di-beet-us and died.”
Edith sniffed in disgust, and Elmo cut short his laugh. There
followed a moment of awkward silence. I felt sorry for Elmo, but
Otis seemed to be enjoying the situation immensely.
“Take me back to the dock,” Edith commanded without con-
sulting her husband. Otis looked at Elmo, who merely nodded.
“All right, Ma’am, “ he said cheerfully, then added with that
mischievous twinkle in his eye, “In fact, we’ll all go beck in.’
She gave him a hard look. “I think you should refund our
money.” Elmo squirmed but remained silent.
Otis reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a small tin of
snuff. Deliberately he removed the lid, tapped a portion under his
 107

bottom lip, and spat over the side. “Why shore you can have your
money back. I’ve fomalized me a set of ethicals to live by.
“Number one: Don’t never beat nobody out of nothing.
“Number two: Don’t never tell nothing that ain’t so.
“Number three: Don’t never holler and cuss at little kids jist
‘cause you’re bigger, and you figger you won’t get your damned
teeth knocked out.
“Number four: Don’t never be mean to wimmin. After all,
some of them are people too.
“Number five: —“
“That’s quite enough!” she cut in. “I don’t give a damn about
your ‘ethicals’ or whatever you choose to call them. Take us back
this minute.”
“Might take a little longer than that, but here we go.”
She gave him a hard look that might have reduced a lesser
man to a midget, but Otis, still smiling, met her eyes evenly.
Back at the dock he let them off and refunded their money,
which Elmo accepted without a word. (Later he sent a check for the
full fee along with a note of apology.)
As we watched them drive away I turned to Otis. “She isn’t ex-
actly a Flora or an Ivory,” I observed. “I’ll wager that without him
that old rattlesnake wouldn’t have a pit to hiss in, yet she treats him
like the dirt under her feet. I don’t think she liked you very much
either.”
“She didn’t have anything against me. That was just her way of
getting at him.” His “smile tracks deepened. “I wonder how he
makes out in bed with her.”
“I wonder if he even gets into bed with her. Wouldn’t surprise
me to learn that she makes him sleep in the dog’s room.”
Otis glanced at the sun and then at his pocket watch. “It’s still
early. You want to go back out?”
“Not really. A big old strawberry shake is more appealing to
me right now.”
We made a beeline for the Angleworm.
 108

Li z z i e M ae

As we entered the air-conditioned café, several people were

lounging around throughout the room just sipping cold drinks and
talking. The regular patrons used the angleworm as a social water-
ing hole to escape the heat and to while away the time.
Otis spotted two women seated in a booth in a far corner of
the room. “huh-oh,” he whispered, “there’s Myrna Johnson. For
about two years she’s been attempting to get me married to one of
her friends or another. Dollars to fish hooks that’s what she’s up to
now.”
We took another booth across the room and ordered our
shakes. Presently the two ladies left their booth and came over to
ours. “Otis,” said Myrna Johnson, “I want you to meet a dear friend
of mine. This is Lizzie Mae.”
Otis jumped to his feet, grabbed the startled woman, and
planted a big kiss squarely on her lips with a resounding smack.
“Pleased to meetcha, Ma’am,” he said with exaggerated enthusiasm.
She promptly gave him a sharp slap in the face.
Otis appeared devastated. “Golly-bum!” he whined, “Now what
did you go and do that for? Heck, I was only observing an old Texas
custom.”
“And I was just observing an old Tennessee custom,” Lizzie
Mae retorted.
He snapped his fingers. “By goobers, that’s right. I remember
that old custom from one time when I went to see some kinfolks in
Nashville. Still got calluses on my cheeks from it. Well, heck, now
that we’re friends, let’s all jist set ourselves down here and have a
nice little visit. What would you ladies like to order? This here’s my
friend Chips. He’s buying. And by the way, don’t get the idea that
I’m a playboy. Thunderation, I ain’t kissed more’n ten wimmen all
day.”
 109

We sat down, and Lizzie Mae soon began to catch the spirit of
the situation. Myrna lost no time in launching her sales pitch. “Liz-
zie Mae is an old schoolgirl chum of mine. She has never been mar-
ried. Otis, she is going to make some lucky guy a good wife some
day—when she meets the right man.”
Lizzie Mae, a fair complexioned woman, turned beet red but
apparently was too embarrassed to say anything. Myrna, not the
least bit embarrassed, pressed on. “Otis, don’t you think it’s high
time you considered getting married and settling down?”
“Who? Me? Golly-bum, I don’t know nobody more settled
down than I am. But, yeah, I did think about getting myself hitched
one time a few years back. I was going steady with a good-looking
woman from Los Angeles and was all set to marry her when I found
out something about her that changed my mind.”
“Really?” Myrna, obviously taking Otis seriously, was in-
trigued. “It must have been pretty bad. What was it you found out
about her?”
“She was lazy.”
“Lazy?”
“Lazy. I mean that gal was LA-A-A-AZY. She was so dang lazy
that every time she wrote a letter she would skip every other word.
She never got around to mailing any because she was too dad-gum
lazy to lick the stamps. And every time she went to bake a cake, she
would pour the flour into the sifter and wait for an earthquake. I
knowed that there marriage wouldn’t never work out, ‘cause I’m
pretty dad-burn lazy myself.”
“Oh, come now, Otis. I don’t believe you’re lazy.”
“The heck I ain’t! Sometimes I ache all night jist because I’m
too lazy to turn over in bed. I don’t even scratch the bedbug bites. I
cain’t even think of working without feeling a little sick, and my
credit is so bad I have to have a co-signer to pay cash.”
“Now really! Seriously, don’t you think you’re missing a lot by
not having a family?”
Otis leaned back and closed his eyes as though she had
twanged a responsive chord. “You got a point there,” he said with a
nod. Some day I might get a family started—if I can find myself a
pregnant woman.”
Lizzie Mae, now fully into the thing, winked at Myrna. “I doubt
that even a pregnant woman would want to marry a man who is too
lazy to zip up his fly.”
 110

Startled, Otis glanced at his lap. The fly was not open, but he
went along with the gag. “You think that’s lazy. Heck, most times
I’m too lazy to zip down.”
Myrna was determined. “Why don’t you want to get married,
Otis? Just one good reason, and let’s have a straight answer for a
change.”
Otis massaged his lips with his teeth. “O.K. if you really want
to know, I’ll tell you. As a matter of fact, I was married at one time.
I don’t talk about it much, but I really was.” He lowered his voice
and spoke with obvious sincerity. “She was a good woman in a lot
of ways, but she wanted to run my life. I mean she wanted total
control. She always put up a fuss every time I bought a piece of
fishing equipment, and when I planned a fishing trip with a buddy,
she wouldn’t speak to me for two days before I left and two days af-
ter I got back home.
“She hated fishing, and she didn’t want me to do it. I put up
with that kind of stuff for as long as I could. Then one day she sent
me to the store for a gallon of milk, and I sort of forgot my way
back home. That was five years ago, and I don’t know if she’s still
waiting for that milk or not. I ain’t seen nor heard from her since.”
Myrna was stunned. “Otis, you never told me you had a wife.”
“I prob’ly ain’t got one now. I figger she has got a divorce. I
don’t know, and I cain’t say as I care one way or another.”
Myra appeared a little miffed. “Why haven’t you told me this
before?”
“Don’t rec’lect you ever asking me.”
“Aren’t you even curious about your marital status? If you are
divorced, you could find a compatible woman and live a more ful-
filling life.”
“I don’t know about these modern wimmen. ‘Pears to me like
they want to wear not only the pants but also the whole damn suit.
And the frock. They ain’t satisfied ‘til they’re running things, and
they ain’t about to obey their husbands like the Good Book says.
Hell, they won’t even take orders from the Lord. Only last Sunday I
turned on the TV, and there was this woman minister preaching on
The Ten Suggestions.
Lizzie Mae changed the subject. “Did you grow up in a rural
community, Mr. Dixon?”
“Nobody ever accused us of being city slickers, that’s for sure.
Fact is I growed up so far back in the sticks you cain’t get there
from here.”
“What did you do for recreation?”
 111

“Oh, we played mumblepeg in the shade of a tree, and some-

times we would knock wasp nests out of trees. Bur I reckon what
we liked best was chasing girls. I don’t mean just courting them like
they do in other places. A virgin back there when I was a kid was
any girl under twelve who could outrun her big brother. After
twelve forget it. Shucks, I didn’t know what shoes was ‘til I was
nineteen. The skin on the soles of my feet was so thick that one
time when I went to the blacksmith shop with my pa, I stepped on a
piece of red hot iron and didn’t feel a thing for three minutes.”
“Ah, now, Mr. Dixon, aren’t you exaggerating a little?”
“Well, one day me and my brother was playing in the back
yard, and I got a big mesquite thorn in my foot. It went in so deep I
couldn’t pull it out. My brother went in the house and got a pair of
pliers. I set myself down on the ground, and he got a-holt of it and
drug me around all over the yard. Pa finally had to borrow a tree
stump puller to get the dang thing out.”
“How did you do with the girls? Did you ever catch any?”
“Not at first. The skin on the bottom of my feet was so
smooth I couldn’t get no traction. I would jist spin my wheels trying
to get going, and that let the girls get too much of a head start on
me, and they was long gone. Then one day I got smart and figgered
out what to do, and after that I didn’t have no more trouble.”
“So what did you do—buy shoes with treads?”
“Nope. I jist took my pocket knife and cut treads in the skin.”
“Seriously, Mr. Dixon, didn’t they have laws concerning under
age girls?”
“I reckon they must have, but us boys never knowed nothing
about the age of consent and stuff like that. Heck, I never even
heard about stationary rape until I moved out here.”
“I assume you mean ‘statutory’ rape.”
“Maybe so, but if they ain’t trying to get away, they’re station-
ary, ain’t they? The girls was willing enough once we caught ‘em.
They just wanted to make the boys work a little. Thinking back on
it, I reckon that was nature’s way of improving the stock by elimi-
nating the weak and insuring the survival of the fittest.”
The chitchat continued in this vein for another hour or so un-
til we stood to leave. Suddenly Lizzie Mae grabbed Otis, pulled his
head down to her level, and planted a big kiss squarely on his lips
with a resounding smack. “Nice meeting you, sir,” she said and went
prancing out the door with her companion.
 112

Sm ar t Bass

The next customers turned out to be a man about Dixon’s age

and his two sons, eight and ten respectively. A thunderstorm was
moving in slowly from the south, and Otis would have cancelled the
outing had not the boys expressed such disappointment that he re-
lented. “O.K., but we’ll have to stay in pretty close,” he warned. “If
it starts looking too bad, were gonna hightail it back here pronto.
Lightning out on a lake in an open boat is real risky, dangerous as a
mad bull in a schoolyard. You get hit out there, and it could fry you
to a crisp and pop your eyeballs right out of your head.”
We motored out to a brushy cove and anchored. Otis had
brought along a carton of mealworms, and the boys and their father
had a ball catching bluegill and even a few small bass. I had aban-
doned the idea of fishing and sat back taking notes. Dixon had be-
come so engrossed in helping and watching the boys that he said lit-
tle until Ben, the boys’ father, asked whether he had ever entered a
fishing tournament.
“Yeah, I entered a big one wunst,” he said. Stuffing his lower
lip with snuff, he continued. “It was sponsored by the Evergreen Sa-
hara Club to raise funds for the purchase of pantyhose for mer-
maids. It was one of them days when even the best pros couldn’t
seem to catch nothing. I wasn’t doing so hot neither. Soon I started
looking for a better spot, and after squeezing through a lot of nar-
row channels, I came out into a wide lagoon that was separated
from the main lake — a real insulated spot where a flock of mallard
ducks was feeding.
“I looked up and seen something that dang near made me fall
out of my boat. A school of big largemouth bass had moved in and
was gulping down them ducks, I mean full-grown ones. Quick like, I
cranked up and spud back into town to buy me a dozen decoys. I
 113

put hooks on ‘em and perceeded to fill my live well with some real
eye poppers. But I didn’t win the tournament.”
“No?” Ben asked dutifully. “Why not?”
“They had this rule you couldn’t kill your catch, and I couldn’t
get the decoys out without mutating the bass real bad. They
wouldn’t let me weigh ‘em with the deeks in ‘em, so I lost out. A guy
from Arkansas won it with a three-ounce tadpole.”
Otis paused, squirted a stream of brown liquid over the side,
and continued. “There wasn’t nothing to do but release my bass
with the decoys sticking part way out of their mouths and hope
they would survive. I reckon they did, ‘cause a couple months later
I went back to that same lagoon, and you won’t believe what I
seen.”
“You saw the bass you had released?”
“I didn’t actually see the bass, but I knew they had found their
way back and that the hooks had rusted out. Them suckers had set
out the decoys to bring in more mallards.”
 114

Sasq u at c h

One might naturally expect most of Dixon’s customers to be

men, but a surprising number turned out to be couples, women,
parent and children, and even a few young girls. I particularly re-
member the two elderly ladies who looked as if they belonged at a
tea party rather than in a bass boat.
Gertrude was a widow and Lillian, her sister, a spinster. Lively
and giggly as schoolgirls, they were a direct contrast to Edith, and
they appeared to be having the time of their lives. Otis completely
captivated them with his stories told as usual with his screwed up
grammar and malapropisms.
A gentle warm breeze barely ruffled the water surface, but it
was very dry, and soon Otis noticed that Lillian kept licking her lips.
Taking something that looked like lipstick without color from his
pocket, he offered it to her. “Here, rub some of this on your lips,
and try not to lick them. Licking them just makes ‘em chap worser.”
She appeared a little doubtful. “I don’t believe in wearing
make-up.”
“This ain’t lipstick. I would have given a ten-dollar bill for a
tube of this one time a few years ago when I was leading a search
party in some of Utah’s wildest back country.”
“What were you searching for? Did someone become lost?”
“Wasn’t that. Some deer hunters had reported seeing
Sasquatch, the critter that some unscientifical dudes call Bigfoot.
The Save-the-Unicorn-Society called me in to try and track him
down, hoping to prevent some trigger-happy hunter from shooting
him. When word got around that I had hunted down and captured
the Abdominal Snowman up in the Himulayers the year before,
folks accused me of being maybe the best tracker and guide in the
world, so the Society figgered I was just the man for the job.
 115

“There was about twenty in the party, and I told ‘em to scatter
out and stick close together so as not to get lost. Wouldn’t you
know it? We hadn’t been in the woods more than two hours ‘til
every dang one of them got separated from me. Now I ain’t one to
give up easy, so I keeps right on looking for them for three days. I
learned later that they all somehow found their way back to camp
the first day, but I didn’t know that.
“Anyways, about the second day out my lips started chapping,
and it got so bad I couldn’t even whistle. They was hurting so bad
that for a while there I thought I would have to give up the search.
But I found some fresh bear droppings and smeared some on my
lips.”
Lillian grimaced. “Bear droppings — oooeee. Does that really
help?”
“Naw, it don’t help the chapping none, but it shore keeps you
from licking your lips.”
Lillian, who had been hanging on every word, was not content
to leave it there. I don’t think she even doubted anything he said.
Evidently she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him stumbling
around in the wilderness. “How did you get back to camp? Did
someone find you?”
Otis looked hurt. “Seems to me, Ma’am, that you’re implicat-
ing it was me what got lost. Golly-bum! I’ve hunted panthers in the
Everglades, battled gollynippers in the Dismal Swamp, tramped
around in just about every jungle in the world, and I ain’t never
been lost in my life. Oh, I’ve been pretty confused at times but
never lost.”
We were anchored in the shade of a tree on shore, and
Gertrude sat with an amused smile on her face and fishing only
half- heartedly. Lillian, however, seemed to have forgotten about
fishing altogether. She was taking Otis very seriously. “What would
you have done had you met Bigfoot?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, Bigfoot. I meant to tell you about that. I did
meet him face-to-face on a narrow trail jist as I rounded a big boul-
der, but I seen right away that he was nothing but a cross between a
Gorilla, a polo bear, and jist enough Exkimo in him so’s he could
walk on his hind legs and talk.”
“A cross between humans and animals? Are you sure? I’ve
heard that’s impossible.”
“Well now, I don’t know about that. The other day I was talk-
ing to a funny looking feller who said his daddy was a sheepherder.
 116

I asked him where his daddy herded sheep, and he said, ‘Monta-a-a-
na’.”
Gertrude laughed at the old gag, but I think it was lost on
Lillian. Her thoughts were still on Bigfoot. “But how did an animal
from the African jungle, one from the Arctic, and an Eskimo man-
age to get together?”
“It’s my understanding that a group of scientifical dudes was
fooling around experimenting with artificial instimulation, and
that’s what they happened to come up with.”
“But why release the poor creature in the wilds of Utah?”
“Don’t know unless there was too much gorilla in him to sur-
vive in polo reejuns and too much Exkimo and polo bear in him to
make it in the jungle.”
“Mr. Wild Otis,” Gertrude said, “the next time your lips be-
come chapped, you won’t need bear droppings. Just smear on a lit-
tle of that crap you’ve been handing us.”
That was the only time I ever saw Otis double over in a belly
laugh.
No one spoke thereafter for several minutes, and I sensed that
Lillian still was deep in thought. At last her curiosity prevailed. “Mr.
Otis,” she said, “you mentioned that Bigfoot could speak. Did he say
anything to you?”
Gertrude snorted. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Lillian!”
“No, that’s O.K., Gertrude,” Otis said with a wink. “I’m plumb
tickled to answer all questions. “Yeah, Lillian, we sat on a stump and
shot the breeze for four hours.”
Lillian became excited. “Amazing. You actually carried on an
intelligent conversation with that creature for four hours? Tell
me—what did he say to you?”
“Don’t rightly know. He was speaking Russian, and I couldn’t
understand a damn word he said.”
“Now really!” Gertrude chided, “You should be ashamed of
yourself. I think you should attend church with us Sunday. Boy, you
really need it.”
Otis started to take a dip of snuff, thought better of it, and re-
turned the small tin to his pocket. “Matter of fact,” he said, gazing
off into the distance, “I will be in church this Sunday. Glad you re-
minded me. That’s the day Grandpa is getting married, and I gotta
attend the wedding.”
“Your grandfather?” asked Lillian. “Did you say your grandfa-
ther is getting married?”
“Yep. It’s his first.”
 117

Apparently Lillian missed the significance of the statement.

“Why, I think that’s just wonderful. How old is your grandfather?”
“Ninety-six, come October.”
“Ninety-six! Why would a ninety-six-year-old man want to get
married?”
“Did I say he wanted to get married?”
Gertrude shook her head. “Honestly, Otis, I don’t know about
you. Can’t you be serious for one minute? Really, we would be de-
lighted to have both you and Chips attend church with us.”
“Yeah, I know,” he replied with a show of humility. “I’m sorry.
I reckon I ort not to joke about things like that. Actually though, I
do have something I’ve jist gotta do Sunday. Been putting it off way
too long. I do hope you understand.”
“Well, I suppose, if it’s that urgent. But what could be so
pressing that it can’t wait one more day?”
“I gotta go by the store and pick up some sealing wax and wax
my ceiling.”
Gertrude let her hands drop into her lap and heaved a big
sigh. “You are absolutely hopeless.” Then she added with a sunny
smile, “But I love you.”
After a lull in the conversation a school of bream moved in,
and there was a flurry of excitement as everyone began catching
fish. It must have been the first time either of the women had ever
fished. They screamed and giggled, and in their excitement forgot
what they were supposed to do. Otis was having a better time than
they were. Catching big bass was old hat to him, but to watch these
two old ladies behaving like six-year-olds as they caught the little
sunfish was a rare treat that he relished to the full.
Abruptly, as if someone had pulled a plug, the biting stopped.
“The school was just passing through,” Otis explained. I figger
they’re headed over yonder where there is a lot of underwater
brush. We can head over there and pick up some more, but we’ll
get hung up in the brush a lot. Or we can set here in the shade and
wait for a school of bass to move in. What’s your pleasure?”
“Why don’t we just ride around in the boat a bit?” Gertrude
suggested. “We can always come back here later if we want to.”
“Good idea. Glad I thought of it. There are some interesting
places around the lake I want to show you, anyhow.”
 118

H an g i n g T r ee an d Ot h er T al es

Since all agreed to do some sight seeing instead of fishing, we

began to cruise around the lake. Otis pointed out places with
strange names that I suspect he made up on the spot.
“See that big cottonwood over yonder where the limb sticks
out like an arm and looks like it needs a swing tied to it? It did have
a swing on it one time, but it wasn’t for fun. That there’s the Hang-
ing Tree. During the Mexican War a soldier swiped a bottle of booze
from General Smiffpook’s tent, and the soldier and about ten of his
buddies got drunk. When none of ‘em would tell which one took the
whiskey, the general hung the whole dang drunken bunch. They say
the place is haunted now. Nobody will camp there. On a moonlight
night like it was when the men was hung, you can hear groans and
sobbing and cussing and horses stamp their feet and whinny. Per-
sonally I have my doubts about the story, but who am I to judge? A
used car salesman who also was a Texas fisherman told me the
story, so it must be true.”
He pointed out a dry wash where water flows into the lake
during flash floods. “See that big boulder up on the side of the
slope? That’s Blood Rock. Some folks call it the Dream Rock. One
time an old prospector fell asleep in the shade of that boulder and
dreamed that his brother back in Missouri got gored to death by a
mean bull. He didn’t think much about it at the time. In fact, he
forgot all about the dream until about a month later, when he got a
 119

letter from his folks, telling that what he had dreamed actually had
happened.
“He told the story around town, and people laughed a him and
told him he had screw worms in his brain. For some strange reason
he went back to the same rock and fell asleep again in the same
spot. This time he dreamed that all the people who had ridiculed
him drank horse liniment and died of a fierce bellyache.”
Otis started to point out another landmark, but Lillian
stopped him. “Wait. Did that dream also come true?”
“Nah, that part was wrong. What they died of was from
drinking bad whiskey that was being used to rub down horses.”
“Take a look at that cliff over there. Notice that down near
the water line there is a wide flat ledge.”
Gertrude interrupted. “Let me guess. I’ll bet that’s Lovers’
Leap.”
“Close, but not quite. It’s called Doctor’s Leap. That’s where
old Doc Ticklebritches ended all his troubles.”
“You mean he jumped to his death there?”
“That’s right. He was a noted surgeon who specialized in heart
transplants and other parts of the body. He got greedy and was
caught using cheap foreign parts.”
“Look closely at that other boulder standing all by itself over
there back a ways from the little sandy beach. What does it remind
you of?”
“Why that looks like a grand piano!” exclaimed Gertrude.
“Exactly. And you know something? You can beat on it with an
iron bar and it actually makes musical sounds, not piano sounds of
course, but more like chimes. A noted musician was murdered
there.”
“What happened?”
“Well, there was this gang of hippies that hired the musician
to play for a shindig the gang held there. It was beautiful music, but
the hippies killed the maestro.”
“Poor man,” said Lillian. “Why did they do that?”
“The musician was playing a violin, but the hippies wanted
rock music.”
 120

Bi g W at er m el o n s an d San d St o r m s

Wesley, Ernie and Marty were a trio of lively brothers. They

spoke with a slight drawl, Which Otis picked up right away when we
met them one morning at Fort Noxious. “You boys wouldn’t happen
to hail from Texas, would you?” he asked.
Ernie chuckled. “You mean it still shows?”
“Who else but a Texan says ‘dad-gummit’? How long have you
boys been displaced?”
“We moved out here about ten years ago.”
“Don’t make no difference. Once a Texan, always a Texan.
Ain’t no place like it. Biggest state in the union.”
“Except for Alaska,” Wesley reminded him.
Otis appeared horrified. “Hey, don’t say that word. Might cor-
rode the instruments in my boat..” He picked up a bottle of out-
board motor oil, unscrewed the cap, and held it out to Wesley.
“Here. Wash out your mouth, boy.”
Marty kneed his brother in the rear. “Watch it, Wes. Didn’t
Papa tell us never to say dirty words?”
“Yes-sir-ree,” Otis continued, “the Lone Star State is yoo-neek.
As for that dad-gum icebox up north, it was a sad day when the
damn Yankees made it a state. Texas ort to declare it a day of
mourning. Let’s all bow our heads in a moment of silent cussing.”
Ernie stooped over, picked up a discarded paper cup crawling
with ants, lifted it high, and shouted, “I propose a toast to Texas.
Otis, have you got any toast in your boat?”
The ants began crawling onto his hand. After he brushed them
off, he bent over to tap the cup on the ground, dislodging the oth-
ers. Again he hoisted it and shouted,
 121

“Here’s to dear old Texas,

Where the soil is deep and rich,
And if you don’t like Texas,
You’re a lop-eared son-of-a-gun!”
“Yea, yea, and hooray for Texas!” the two other brothers
yelled.
“Well now, if y’all are finished sacrileging, irreverating, and
poking fun at Texas,” Otis said in mock sternness, let’s all get in
Fool’s Gold here and go catch us some bass.”
After donning our life jackets and applying sunscreen we got
into the boat and caught us some bass. We worked the end of a long
finger of land that jutted out from shore and suddenly dropped off
into the channel. The bass had been feeding in the shallows and
were just beginning their migration back to their sanctuary in deep
water. Otis knew the area well.
Nearing the place, he killed the outboard engine and used the
electric trolling motor for a quieter approach while explaining his
game plan to us. “We will begin by working the shoreline with spin-
ners and top water lures. If we don’t pick some up right away, we
will gradually work toward deep water, switching to deep diving
plugs, and if we still don’t make contact, we will change to jump
baits and plastic worms, all the while going deeper and working
them slower until we find the fish. In this clear water and bright
sun, I don’t think the migration will last long. We gotta catch ‘em
while they’re on the move before them boogers suspend off the
point in forty feet of water and snooze until late this evening.”
The fishing was good for about an hour. We found them first
at mid depth while using deep diving plugs. We caught a few more
with plastic worms after going still deeper. It worked out just as
Otis had predicted. Also as he had said, the action suddenly
stopped.
“Why don’t we go back to the weeds where we caught the oth-
ers?” suggested Wesley.
“Ain’t you been listening, boy? They ain’t there no more. They
migrated back to their safe haven in deep water, and there they will
stay until the next feeding migration begins. We followed their mi-
gration route from the weeds back to their sanctuary. They’re done
feeding until later this evening, when they will take the same route
toward the weeds along the shore. Right now they are in a dormant
phase, and they won’t move a fin to take a lure or live bait even if
you dangle right in front of their noses. They are turned off here
and all over the lake. Our best bet, if we want to continue fishing
 122

now, is to find some brush and try for sunfish.” We anchored over a
fallen tree in fairly deep water and under a large shade tree. It was a
lazy kind of fishing and a perfect setting for more tall tales.
“I sure would like to have one of them big cold Texas water-
melons about now,” Marty said.
Otis nodded. “They do grow ‘em big there, don’t they? I re-
member one year we growed some extry big ones. Fact is, they was
so big you had to have a forklift just to pick up a seed. From a dis-
tance they looked like a herd of elephants. We didn’t ship none
‘cause there was no way we could load ‘em to move ‘em.”
“Uh-huh,” Ernie agreed. Did you live in a pretty part of the
state?”
“Every part of Texas is pretty. Ain’t an ugly spot in the entire
state unless you’re talking about some of the people.
“Funny thing,” observed Ernie. “The people who grow up in
Texas can’t wait to get the hell out, but as soon as they move
somewhere else they brag that there’s no finer place on earth to
live. Hey, if you’re so high on Texas, why don’t you move back?”
“Me move back? You think I’m crazy? No way am I gonna
move back into them dang sandstorms. Talk about sandstorms, one
year when we was living up on the plains southwest of Lubbock, I
painted my barn all nice and red, and about the time I finished the
job it blowed up a big sandstorm. The next morning it looked like
the barn had been stuccoed. I painted it again right over the sand
and all, and danged if it didn’t blow up another one even worse
than the first.
“The same thing happened fourteen times in fourteen days.
Sand, grasshoppers, tumblebugs, lizards, and two horned toads was
sticking to the west side of that barn. There was so many tumble-
weeds stuck on the wall that the prairie chickens built nests in ‘em.
The dirt had built up so thick that prairie dogs started digging holes
in it. We growed a small ‘tater patch there., and we et small ‘taters
for two months.”
 123

T h e Bi r d W at c h er

Doug was a young fellow from Fort Worth. Ebullient, he exhib-

ited a remarkable curiosity about almost everything he saw, espe-
cially the birds. He said he had recently taken up the hobby of bird
watching and requested that we keep an eye out for kinds that he
may never have seen before.
We were at the dock and preparing to go aboard the boat. Otis
stopped what he was doing. “Would you like to combine bird
watching with your fishing?” he asked Doug.
“Yeah, that would be great.”
“Skinning two cats with one stone, eh? The best place to see
birds is up river a few miles to Topock Marsh. Hold on a minute
while I make a phone call.” After talking a minute on his cellular
phone, he put it away.
“An old friend of mine lives there, and he is in Alaska for a few
days. His wife will let us use his boat for the day. The marsh is shal-
low and full of stick-ups, but it is loaded with bass. Let’s get in the
car and drive up there.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Yeah, we got some pretty strange birds around here,” Otis
stated as he drove. “You have too, for that matter. Some people out
here don’t believe me when I tell ‘em about the scissortails back in
your part of Texas. I hated ‘em when I was a kid. The darn things
kept snipping my kite strings. My mom used to make all our clothes,
and she had one trained to cut the cloth for her. Worked out good,
 124

‘cept it had the bad habit of cutting things it wasn’t supposed to.
That proved to be its undoing. One day my dad caught it cutting up
his paper dolls and wrung its neck.
“But I reckon you want to hear about the birds we have here
along the river. There’s one kind you might be able to hear if you
listen real close. It’s called the swamp mileormore. He’s a marsh
bird with long legs and a long straight bill. His right side is a bright
purple, and his left side is a dark black. The females lay cube shaped
eggs.”
“Really?” Doug asked innocently. “How big is it?”
“Somewhere between the size of a sparrow and an ostrich.
They vary.”
“Why is it called a mileormore?”
“That’s because he pokes his bill in the mud, whistles out of
his ass, and you can hear him for a mile or more.”
“Ah, come on, you guys,” Doug protested. “I’m serious.”
“All right, boy. This is the honest truth. There is a kind of bird
in this area that swivels his tail when he flies and guides himself with
it. He turns it ninety degrees and uses it like a rudder.”
Doug shrugged his shoulders. “I can see I’m not going to get
much help from you guys. Guess I’m on my own.”
A short time later he saw a boat-tailed grackle do exactly as
Otis had described, and he became very excited. Knitting his brow in
thought, he fell silent for a moment. Then his face brightened.
“About those mileormores —“
The boat was ready to go when we arrived, and we began to
see a great variety of birds immediately. Otis pointed out several..
Surprisingly knowledgeable, he delighted Doug with his serious dis-
sertations. I kept waiting for another tall tale. It wasn’t long in
coming.
“The Navajos have some pretty weird ideas about birds and
animals, many claiming to be able to communicate with them on a
human level. Of course most of the stuff is superstition, but there is
one strange story that many educated whites are convinced contains
some truth. It has to do with the Gypsy bird.”
“I never heard of Gypsy birds,” Doug said. “Are they for real?”
“Not birds—bird. According to the legend, there is only one,
and it is very old, maybe hundreds of years old. Of course that’s
nonsense, but it’s possible that there really is a very strange bird
something like the Indians describe.”
Doug was all ears. “In what way is it strange?”
 125

“They say it can predict the future and communicate it to peo-

ple.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Anyway, that’s the claim. Personally I reserve judgment, but I
know a college professor who lived with a group of Navajos for sev-
eral months, and he swore he had seen the bird and witnessed its
supernatural powers.”
Doug grinned. “Well, it does get hot in these parts, and I sup-
pose the heat can affect even the brains of a college professor.”
“Uh huh. I’d think the same thing if I hadn’t seen some of the
predictions come true.”
“Ah, yes,” Doug interjected, “I think I know the answer. It’s
Poe’s raven. You ask it if something is going to happen, and it will
croak, ‘Never more.’”
“Hey, man,” Otis said with a chuckle, “you’re too sharp for me.
Thanks for coming to my rescue. I was painting myself in a corner
with this one.
 126

T h e Ol d Co w b o y

Harley Milford and his wife Freida were waiting for us at Fort
Noxious early one morning. Both were past middle age but eager as
youngsters for the fishing adventure. Freida had never fished from a
boat before. She had grown up in New Hampshire, and she told us
that this was the first time she had ever been out of the state.
When she learned that Otis was from Texas she began plying
him with questions, much to his delight. Evidently she assumed that
he had been a cowboy. “Tell us about your life out on the range,”
she requested. “Did you roll your own cigarettes and croon to the
longhorns?”
“Yeah, every cowboy had to learn to roll ‘em while riding his
pony before he could get a job; otherwise he would waste too much
time. And we had to sing to the critters or they would stampede and
run over a cliff and break their necks. One day I got caught in a bad
sandstorm and got so much sand in my craw that I couldn’t sing for
four days. All I could do was crodel a little.”
“Crodel?”
“That’s like half way between a croak and a yodel. Now long-
horn steers, they hate crodeling, and shore ‘nuff that very night it
blowed up a bad thunder storm, and the dang critters all got
skeered and headed for a high cliff.”
Frieda was enchanted. “Oh, my goodness! And you couldn’t
calm them down by crooning to them. Did they all go over the cliff?”
“Nope. I said they headed for a high cliff, and they had to stop
when they got to the wall.”
“Oh. Oh, yes of course. Did you always live on a cattle ranch?”
 127

“Not always. I farmed some of the time, but I was born in a log
cabin on a turkey ranch. That was my Oaken Turkey Home.”
“Was your family well-to-do?”
“You mean like sort of rich? Heck, no! We was so dang pore
that all the houseflies deserted us. One kid at school went around
bragging that he had counted nine flies that morning in their
kitchen. I didn’t believe him ‘cause I didn’t think he could count that
high. All we had to eat there for one stretch was corn meal and
boiled tumbleweeds. Then one year things got bad.”
“Really? What could possibly be worse than that?”
“Well, Mom sent us kids out to see if we could find some lo-
custs or grasshoppers to eat, you know, like John the Baptist, but all
we could bring back was a couple of katydids. Ain’t much left to eat
after you skin ‘em. It was the hot dry weather, though, that nearly
done us in. It got so hot that our family would gather around the
fireplace to keep cool. Don’t know how hot it got, but one of the
neighbors swore he saw two imps from hell taking notes. It was so
dry that our cows started giving powdered milk. Times like that,
everything sort of gets out of whack. The ravens don’t rave, the
roosters don’t crow, and the crows don’t roost. Things went down-
hill after that. We decided it was time to move when we would take a
chew of tobacco and spit out dry snuff.”
“Did you raise chickens on the farm?”
“Oh, yeah, we raised a lot of chickens ‘cept for two years when
the hens laid infernal eggs that wouldn’t hatch.”
“Didn’t you have any cocks?”
“You mean roosters? Sure, we had a lot of roosters, but there
was this big old red rooster we called Mullah. He ruled the
roost—and the roosters—and because of him the hens laid infernal
eggs.”
“Oh, I see. He kept all the hens for himself, and he was sterile.”
“Wasn’t that. You see, ol’ Mullah was a strict moralist. He had
his own code of ethicals, and he forced his morals on the whole
flock. Every morning he would gather all the chickens around him,
hop upon a tree stump, and start preaching. Leastwise I think he was
preaching. I listened a few times, but the only thing I could under-
stand was, ‘Cock-a-doodle-DON’T.’”
 128

T r u an t Of f i c er

Harley was an experienced plastics worm fisherman, and Otis

took us to a place where he had caught and released many large
bass in the past. Harley kept his eyes glued to the line so that he
could detect the slightest twitch. Of all the methods of bass fishing,
this one demands the most intense attention and concentration. It
paid off for Harley. Otis saw the line move also and moved in posi-
tion to reach down and grasp the bass by the lower jaw.
Soon a monster largemouth bass, gills flaring, lay belly up be-
side the boat. “Yippeee!” Harley shouted, excited as a teenager. He
wanted no help from Otis. After boating the fish he said with obvi-
ous pride, “This hawg is going on the wall of my den.”
Otis examined the trophy carefully. “Darn, Harley. What a
shame.”
“What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”
“Too dang bad, Harley, but I’m afraid you’re gonna have to
throw this sucker back.”
“Throw it back? Like hell I’ll throw it back. I caught this baby
fair and square and you’re telling me I can’t keep it?”
“Golly-bum, Harley, I feel worse that you do. This bass may be
a lake record, but rules is rules.”
“What rules? I read the regulations, and there’s nothing that
says I can’t keep a trophy of a lifetime.”
“The new rule was passed too late to include with the printed
regulations, but it says that certain fish out of a school must be re-
leased unharmed.”
Obviously angry, Harley stormed, “Why in hell didn’t you tell
me this before?”
 129

“Never figgered I’d need to. The odds against catching this par-
ticular fish are maybe one in ten million. This bass is from a big
school, and the badge identifies it as a truant officer, and if you
don’t release it, the whole dang school will play hooky, and first
thing you know the whole lake will be full of ignorant bass that can’t
tell a fake lure from the real prey. If that ever happens the bass will
become so easy to catch it won’t be sport anymore.”
 130

T h e I n t er v i ew

The young man, Fredrick Hollis, arrived promptly at the ap-

pointed time. He had made an appointment to interview Otis at his
house, and Otis was expecting him. He was studying journalism and
needed to practice.
After the formalities, Fredrick began his questions.
“Mr. Dixon,” he began.
“Name’s Otis.”
“As you wish. Otis, I hope you will bear with me. This is my
very first attempt at an interview, and I’m a bit nervous.”
“Hey, man, relax. I ain’t exactly a member of English royalty.
Heck, I just barely know the Queen. Say whatever is on your mind.
You can always clean it up later.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll begin by asking you if you resent being re-
ferred to as ‘Wild Otis’.”
“Well, I ain’t never beat nobody up for doing that. You’re safe.”
“I understand you were born and reared in Texas. Is that cor-
rect?”
“I’ve been accused of being hatched, but yeah, Texas has the
honor of being my home state.”
“My information has it that you were raised on a farm. What
did you do for amusement?”
“Reckon you could say I was sort of impish. My mom tells
folks I was forever getting into devilment. She laughs at the stuff
now, but it wasn’t funny to her when it happened. Like the time I
used up all her pink nail polish. I admit it was mean of me, but the
old sow and six of her pigs shore had pretty hooves.
 131

“Another time I snuck into a neighbor’s barnyard and caught

the dominant rooster. I painted him a different color and watched as
he had to earn his place in the pecking order all over again.
“We had a lot of red ant hills scattered around on the farm.
Sometimes I would carry an ant from one hill and set it down in an-
other. To a person all the red ants look exactly alike, but the ant
would be attacked and killed almost as soon as it was placed in a
strange colony. I’ve no idea how they know. Most of my pranks was
pretty harmless. I never done things like tying the tails of cats and
‘possums together and slinging them over a clothesline. I didn’t con-
sider myself cruel even if my little cousin Susan did that time I
smeared sorghum molasses on her throat and submerged the end of
her pigtail in shellac.”
“What kind of pets did you have?”
“Just the usual — rattlesnakes, skunks, tarantulas —stuff like
that.”
“Did you really make pets of them?”
“Sure, but some of the critters was also useful. My dad liked
his corn likker, and he always added a few drops of rattlesnake
venom to it to give it more kick. He was unhappy with me that day
he caught me adding a couple drops of skunk musk.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“One older sister, Golldernya. Gollie turned out to be an old
maid, and I reckon it was my fault. I had this pet skunk, Juicy Fruit,
and every time one of her boyfriends came a-calling, I would let
Juice run around in the living room where they was spooning on the
couch. He never squirted any of them, but I had him trained to aim
his rear end like he was going to, and that made them nervous. None
ever called on her twice.”
“How did you do in school? What was your favorite subject?”
“I done pretty good, except my grammar wasn’t nothing to be
proud of. I was good a math, though. One day my teacher asked the
class how far a light year is, and I was the only one who could figure
it out. I done it in my head in seconds. The teacher was astounded.”
“That is pretty remarkable. How many miles did you come up
with?”
“I ain’t talking about miles. I gave the distance in millimeters.”
 133

PA RT 3

A sso r t ed St o r i es
 135

T h e Far m er I n T h e W el l

Dr. Stephenson, acting coroner for Jones County, pulled the

sheet back. “Roy,” he said, “there’s something pretty odd about this
case. Take a look at that. Why would anyone want to shoot a man
who had just suffered a hundred and eighty-one wasp stings?
There’s enough venom in this body to kill a Jersey bull and a
Clydsdale stud horse.”
The sheriff looked at the corpse. “But I thought he was shot to
death.”
“Oh it was the bullet that killed him, all right, but not before
the wasps got to him. Had he been dead when he was stung, the
venom wouldn’t be in the blood. He must have been shot very soon
after the insects did their number on him. I doubt any man could
survive an hour with all those stings. Do you have any leads?”
“No, but I do have a starting point. I think he was shot with an
armor-piercing bullet probably fired from an old army rifle. The
bullet didn’t expand at all but went clean through the body and
kept on zinging out across the real estate. The odd thing is that the
guy must have had both arms up, because the bullet entered his left
armpit and exited the right without touching either arm.”
“Hold up, you reckon?”
“That’s what I figured at first, but I don’t know. I couldn’t see
any powder burns, and why an army rifle? Robbers don’t ordinarily
use rifles in a stickup. Maybe he got in an argument with some hot-
headed farmer. The body was hauled in a wagon and dumped..”
“Well, Roy, at least I have some information for you. Tom
Hardin came in this morning and identified the body. The name is
Clem Wessel. He worked for Tom for about a week. Tom said the
 136

man showed up at his farm one morning and asked for a job. He
never talked about himself. Never said where he was from or where
he was going. Just wanted to work a while.”
“On the run from the law.”
“Maybe, but Tom says the guy was well mannered, polite and
a good worker, although his hands showed he was a city dude. He
didn’t mind getting dirty, but he always took a bath after work and
kept his clothes pressed.”
“Did Tom say anything about what the man did at night after
work? Did he go out?”
“I didn’t question him a lot, but Tom did say he stayed in his
room every night. Apparently he didn’t know anybody here. So if
you’re thinking he was fooling around with some farmer’s wife or
daughter, you can pretty well discard that idea.”
“Okay. Then somebody who didn’t like him must have been
on his trail and caught up with him. I’ll talk to a few farmers and
see if I can come up with something.”
Today much of the area known as The Shinnery has been
cleared and turned into farm land, but in the ‘twenties it consisted
of hundreds of square miles of deep sand and dense small oak
trees. Hardly anyone lived in the interior. The few who did usually
had good reason. Mostly they were losers, society’s misfits, al-
though some tried to make an honest living there. The land did
grow good fruit, which was not much of a money crop in cotton
country. Others resorted to bootlegging.
Almost all the citizens of the small towns surrounding the
area can relate horror tales about people becoming lost and going
mad in that dismal place. A few abandoned old houses testify to
shattered dreams of people who wanted to get away from it all. It
was at such a lonely old house where the body had been found by
two lads who were squirrel hunting. Sherifff Roy Telford and his
deputy, Jack Sanford, had retrieved it from a dry cistern beside the
house.
Eli Barber, a farmer living near the edge of the shinnery, was a
close friend of the sheriff. His farm was the closest place to the old
house, and Roy decided to call on him first. As he pulled into the
front yard and parked the Model T, Ol’ Jiggs, the mongrel, bounded
out with a friendly bark. Roy petted him and scratched him behind
the ears. Eli’s teenage daughter, Rachel, sat on the porch.
The girl, somewhat mentally retarded, nevertheless possessed
a body that was anything but ill developed, a fact the neighborhood
boys had not overlooked. Her mother had died a few months previ-
 137

ously, and she and old Eli lived alone. Eli had become a little over-
protective of his only child.
Ordinarily friendly and outgoing, she now appeared a little
nervous and unsmiling at the sight of the sheriff, whom she always
called “Uncle Roy.” He opened the gate and walked up to her.
“Hi, honey,” he greeted. “Are you well? You look a little pale.
What caused the spots on your face? You got the chickenpox?”
“No, I was stung by —”
“—a bee.” Eli finished her statement. “Hi, Roy. What got you
out of bed before ten o’clock in the morning? You on the hot trail
of a criminal, like maybe some evil candy thief?”
“A little more serous this time, ol’ buddy. Thought maybe you
could help me. I don’t have a heck of a lot to go on at this point.”
“Well, thunderation, come on in — ‘less’n you’d rather stand
out here and relieve Ol’ Jiggs of some of his fleas.”
After they were inside and seated, Eli told Rachel to bring cof-
fee. “Now, Roy, what’s this all about?”
“You mean you haven’t heard? Heck, I figured just about eve-
rybody within a hundred miles of Anson had heard about the body
the Wheatley boys discovered out at the old Gorman place.”
“That so? And you ain’t got a clue as to who done it?”
“Done what? I just said a body was found.”
Eli flushed. “Well, shucks —”
“Never mind. No, I don’t have anything much. Thought maybe
you had seen or heard something out of the ordinary.”
“Like what? You ain’t told me how the feller met his end.”
“Did I say it was a man?”
Eli frowned. “You playing games with me, Roy? Jis’ get on with
it.”
“Sorry. Yeah, it’s a man’s body, and he was shot.”
“So you’re asking me if I heard a gunshot?”
“That or the rumble of a wagon, or anything that might have
caught your attention.”
“Nope. Never heard nothin’ of the kind. Sorry I can’t be more
help.”
“All right. How did Rachel get the bee stings? Did she stumble
over a beehive?”
“No. The other day we was on our way back from town, and
this dern bee got in the car and popped her four times before I
could stop and kill the blame thing.”
“Wait a minute here. You’re sure it wasn’t a wasp?”
“I said it was a bee, and I reckon I can tell a bee from a wasp.”
 138

“Hey, you don’t have to get testy about it. But, Eli, don’t you
know a bee can sting only once? When a bee stings, the stinger pulls
out, and the bee dies. You didn’t know that?”
“Uh, well maybe it was a wasp.”
“Uh huh. Eli, do you still have that old army rifle you brought
back from Germany?”
“Gosh, Roy, I ain’t seen that dern thing in years, but I reckon
it’s still around here somewheres. Why do you ask?”
“But, Papa,” Rachel interjected, “you cleaned it just yester-
day.” Then realizing her boo boo, she clapped her hand over her
mouth and ran from the room.
Sick at heart, Roy pressed his old friend. “Eli, how long have
we known each other?”
Obviously glad to get away from any discussion of wasps, his
face brightened. “A long time. Ever since we started to school to-
gether at Harmony. You remember that time —“
The sheriff cut him short. “Eli, in all that time I’ve never
known you to lie before. Tell me about Clem Wessel. Did you know
him? Why did you shoot him??
The old farmer’s face turned beet red, then ashen. Tears
welled in his eyes, and he pulled a huge red bandanna from his back
pocket and honked loudly into it.
“Honest, Roy, I was gonna go get you and tell you how it hap-
pened, but then I started thinking about Rachel. If I was sent to the
pen, what would become of her? Who would take care of her? As
you know, we ain’t got no kinfolks, and I couldn’t bear the thought
of her living with strangers who might not love her and take proper
care of her. Rachel needs me.”
“Go on. What happened?”
“I didn’t mean to shoot him. Just wanted to scare the tar out
of him.”
“And?”
“It happened this way. The other day I hitched my team of
mules to the wagon and went to the field to head maize. I took the
rifle along to see if I could get that dern fox that’s been making off
with my hens. He always before stayed just out of range of my shot-
gun. Them suckers seem to know how far a shotgun will shoot, but I
was gonna fool him.
“It was a hot day, and Rachel brought me some cold lemon-
ade. On her way back to the house as she got to the fence by the
cow pasture, this feller stepped out from among the mesquite trees
and started for her. I seen him grab her and throw his coat over her
 139

head. She broke away and started to run with this man right in after
her. Without even thinking, I grabbed the rifle and throwed a shot
his way. Then I seen him fall. He was dead when I got to him. I told
Rachel to go on home and go to bed and not talk to nobody until I
decided what to do.
“Like I told you, my first thought was to go get you. Instead, I
got a tarp and wrapped the body in it. I hefted it into the wagon
with the intention of taking it way into the shinnery and bury it,
hoping it would never be found. I was crazy sick with worry and
couldn’t think worth a dern. So when I got to the old Gorman house
and saw the cistern, I dumped it in and went back home to take
care of Rachel. I jist didn’t know what else to do.”
“All right, Eli. I understand. But Eli, I’ve got this feeling that
you’re not telling me the whole story. Are you holding something
back? What about those wasp stings on Rachel’s face??
Eli’s lips began to tremble and his whole body shook with
sobs. At last he got control of himself. “I don’t like to tell you this,
but I guess you got to know all the details. I didn’t know this until
Rachel told me later.
“When she left me and got to the lane by the pasture, she seen
something shiny like a piece of blue glass and went over to pick it
up. She didn’t see the big ol’ wasp nest hanging from a low mes-
quite limb and bumped right into it. When the wasps started sting-
ing her face, she screamed. That’s when I looked up from about a
hundred yards away and seen this feller running toward her. He
seen what was happening and took off his coat and throwed it over
her head and told her to run.
“Of course by that time the wasps was all over him. That’s the
whole story, Roy, and now I’ll have to live the rest of my life know-
ing I killed a good man who was jist trying to save my little girl.”
 140

T h e Or p h an s

The Sunnyside Orphanage in Waco had a reputation to match

its name. It really was a pleasant place, the staff being cheerful,
dedicated people, and the children in general were happy. Ronnie
quickly won the hearts of all the staff members after being admit-
ted the day he was born. All knew how he came to be there.
He had been left on the doorstep of the chief of police only
hours after his birth, and after the officer had him checked at the
children’s hospital, he had taken him to the orphanage.
“Well, now, so ye’re the foundlin’ what was left on me
brother’s doorstep, are ye?” cooed Maggie. “Welcome to the world,
me darlin’.”
Maggie, the buxom matron, loved all the children in her
charge as if they were her own flesh and blood and never failed to
weep for days after one of them was adopted and taken away. Little
did she realize that a very exceptional child was put in her charge
that day. She was surprised and immensely pleased when, in less
than two weeks, she noticed Ronnie’s bright blue eyes following her
movements, and she was overjoyed when he smiled up at her a few
days later. It had been a genuine smile, not the gas pain false smile
that often fools parents of babies so young.
If she was surprised at his first smile, she was astounded when
he spoke his firs word. She almost dropped the formula bottle when
he spoke her name at the age of three months. Before he was six
months old he could complete whole sentences and carry on simple
conversations. At age two he was reading children’s books, and be-
 141

fore his fifth birthday, he was reading everything he could get his
hands on.
His favorite books when he was six were Tom Sawyer and
Huckleberry Finn. He liked Tom’s style and the way he could
dramatize that which to most kids would be just ordinary. Ronnie’s
keen intelligence quickly established him as the undisputed leader
of the other children in the home, and they always looked to him to
settle their disputes.
One day when he was ten years old, two children about his
own age, a boy and a girl, unrelated, were admitted. Billy was a
stocky pug nosed, freckle faced boy and somewhat of a bully.
RosaLee was bucktoothed and “ugly” as some of the kids put it.
Children can be rather cruel among themselves, and Billy, much to
the amusement of the other boys and girls, began teasing her and
making fun of her. She began to cry.
Ronnie, who had been inside, stepped outside at that point
and joined the group. When he saw what was happening he went
over to Rosie and gave her his handkerchief to dry her eyes.
“Hi,” he said with a smile. “I’m Ronnie. Don’t pay any atten-
tion to them. Once they get to know you, they will like you, and you
will all be friends. I’ve got some money. Would you like an ice
cream cone at the drugstore?”
All the other girls vied for his attention, and when Ronnie
came to Rosie’s defense and offered to buy her a treat, their atti-
tude toward her changed abruptly. Billy, who had enjoyed the lime-
light briefly, was not about to be upstaged meekly.
Walking up to Ronnie, he rolled up his right sleeve and flexed
his bicep. “I can lick you. You wanna fight?”
“No, I don’t want to fight,” Ronnie calmly replied. “Let’s you
and I go over and have a conference.”
“Have a what?”
“A talk. I want to tell you something.”
“What you wanna talk about?”
“Come on over by that tree. I want to talk to you privately. I
mean I don’t want the other kids to hear us.” He placed an arm
 142

around Billy’s shoulder, and when they were out of earshot of the
others, he said, “What would you do if you had a little sister here,
and the kids started making fun of her?”
Billy thought that over for a few seconds. “I’d beat the snot
out of ‘em!”
“Okay, Billy, from now on you and I are brothers, and Rosie is
our little sister, and nobody is ever going to make her cry again.”
The last part of the statement he said emphatically.
Billy, sensing Ronnie’s superiority, was glad for the opportu-
nity to transfer his guilt to the other kids. “Yeah, by gosh, if them
mean kids ever poke fun at her again, they’re gonna get it!”
Shaking hands, they solemly swore by the ears of the great
horned owl that they would remain brothers forever. Thereafter
they were inseparable companions. They were always partners when
playing games with the other children, and often they would go off
together to share their chimerical fantasies. Neither knew who his
parents were, but they would pretend that they were actually blood
brothers and their father a stunt flier. Sometimes it would be Char-
les Lindberg, other times purely a figment of their imaginations, but
always a super pilot who would sneak in with his airplane to take
them for a spin among the clouds.
There was a wheelbarrow at the orphanage, and one day they
took it from the tool shed to give each of the girls a ride. Placing a
board across a puddle of muddy water, they pretended it was the
London Bridge. Of course the inevitable happened. Billy spilled one
of the girls into the puddle. Ronnie hosed her off, and they walked
her around until she dried out, but someone snitched, and the boys
went to bed that night without supper. The incident remained a
joke among the kids and adults alike.
Another time just the two of them were walking home from a
movie. It was late afternoon, and the street was devoid of traffic. A
new Model A Ford roadster pulled up beside them and stopped. The
driver, a beautiful young woman who was alone, got out. Ronnie
noted her expensive looking clothes and the delicate perfume. Ob-
 143

viously she had good taste. Ignoring Billy, she walked up to Ronnie.
“Are you Ronald Smith?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Without another word she gently placed her arms around him
and with a little sob, kissed him tenderly full on the lips. After a
long embrace, her wet cheek against his, she got back into the car
and drove away. Momentarily stupified, Ronnie wiped his cheek and
stood gaping as the car drove out of sight.
“Who the heck was that?” Billy asked.
“I don’t know,” Ronnie replied, still gazing down the empty
street, “but my guess is that she is my mother. That must have been
her way of telling me something that she couldn’t put into words.
Some day I will find her. I wish I had noted the license plate num-
ber.”
“But how come she waited so long? And why didn’t she just
come right and say she was your mom?”
“I don’t know that, either, but I will find out and learn who I
am. The sob and the tears tell me that she was forced to give me up
but that she never stopped loving me.
“Bill, let’s not tell anyone about this. It will be our secret, just
between you and me.”
The boys could hardly talk of anything else for weeks thereaf-
ter. Their curiosity about their parents became more intense, and
they made a pact that each would help the other locate his parents
after they became old enough to leave Sunnyside.
They left the orphanage much sooner than either had antici-
pated. A childless couple, a Doctor Pritchard and his wife adopted
Ronnie, at age eight. The next day Billy ran off on his own. Evidently
he changed his name and was clever enough to avoid being found
by the authorities.
Ronnie’s name was changed to Pritchard, and the boys lost
track of each other. Ronnie, like his foster father, became a doctor
and quickly established his own practice. Soon he became finan-
cially well off. Although one of the most sought after bachelors in
Waco, he was still unwed at the age of thirty.
 144

As he entered his office one day, his receptionist said, “Doc-

tor, there is a woman in the waiting room who wants to see you.
She declined to give her name, but said the visit was of a personal
nature. Do you wish to see her?”
“How old a woman, Marcia?”
“Fiftyish, I’d say. Possibly a little older.”
“She wouldn’t tell you what she wanted to talk about?”
“No, only that it was very personal.”
“Send her into the conference room. I’ll see her there.”
Ronnie recognized the woman immediately as she entered.
He stood and extended both hands. “Hello, Mother.”
Stunned, the lady finally regained her composure. “How did
you know?”
After a long emotional embrace he said, “I remember that day
you stopped and kissed me. I knew then that you were my mother,
and I’ve been trying in vain ever since to find you.”
“I was forbidden to contact you. I took a chance of being ar-
rested that day. Do you want to know why I had to give you up?”
“I’ll bet I can guess. You were an unwed pregnant girl, and
your parents were outraged.”
“Not only my parents, but the entire community. The situation
became unbearable, and when I was eight months along, I left home
to face a hostile and unforgiving world alone.
“At the tender age of sixteen I had the misfortune to fall in
love with a married man, a scientist I worked for. He was a genius
but thoroughly immoral. When I told him I was pregnant, he would
have nothing further to do with me and threatened to kill me if I
disclosed his infidelity. Of course our affair was secret, and as far
as I know, no one ever found out that he was involved with an un-
der age girl. He could have received a stiff sentence and probably
would have been divorced.”
“What happened after you left home?”
“We lived in a small town where everyone knew everything
that was going on, and I decided to get myself lost in a city. That’s
how I came to be in Waco when the time came for you to be born. A
 145

kindly elderly lady who lived alone took me in. She is the one who
left you at the doorstep of the chief of police. After you were born I
went to Dallas and worked at various jobs, barely making a living.
No way could I have supported you even if I could have persuaded
the authorities to let you be released to me. Eventually I got a good
job, but I was deemed an unfit mother.
“After that one time you and I met, I returned to Dallas and
more or less became reconciled to the fact that I would never have
you as my own. After you were adopted, I stayed away because,
well, to be frank, I didn’t want to disgrace you by allowing your fos-
ter parents and your friends to know what kind of mother you had.
I shall leave now, and no one ever need know who was here.”
“You will do no such thing. All my life I’ve dreamed of this
day. For the first time I feel complete. By the way, are you married
now?”
“Not at present. I’ve gone through two marriages and two di-
vorces.”
“No other children?”
“None. I really ought to leave. I don’t want to complicate your
life.”
“You are my mother. Oh, by the way, I don’t even know your
name, or my own for that matter. Who am I?”
“Let’s just leave things as they are for now. Later, when you
have had a chance to think this over carefully and you still want me
in your life, we can take it from there.”
“I don’t have to think it over. I know what I want, and that in-
cludes you. I suppose you will have to get all your business taken
care of, but then I want you right here in Waco. In the meantime, I
have an obligation to an old friend. Do you remember that little boy
who was with me that day? His name is Billy, or was then. I don’t
know where he is now or anything about him, but we made a sol-
emn pact that we would help each other locate our parents. I think
it’s high time I kept my end of the agreement. I intend to turn my
practice over to a doctor friend while I take a long sabbatical. When
I return we will see about getting you settled here. In the meantime,
 146

I want you to meet my wonderful folks. This has been a red letter
day for me.”
****
Over the years Ronnie had made halfhearted attempts at lo-
cating Billy. He had hired a private detective who had given him
some leads, but none had been solid enough for him to act on
them. However, the last one had seemed promising. The private eye
had heard of a man who would be about Billy’s age now. The man,
still unidentified, had been an orphan at Sunnyside. It was only a
rumor, and no one actually seemed to know the man. Still, it was
the best lead so far.
Having made arrangements with his doctor friend, Ronnie left
in his quest to find Billy. He had small hopes of actually locating
Billy’s mother, but it would be nice to see again his childhood pal.
He took a bus to Abilene and hired a man to drive him to
Anson, the little farm town where Billy might be living. There was
still a lot of Tom Sawyer left in Ronnie, and he wanted to dramatize
the meeting if and when it ever took place. He did not reveal his
identity. Instead he took a job at a “filling station” pumping gasoline
and changing tires, keeping his eyes and ears open as he chatted
with the customers.
After about a week of the dirty work, he began to look the
part of a regular laborer. Then one day a man told him about a
farmer who just might be Billy. Without revealing his purpose he
contacted the man and went to work for him. It turned out to be a
false lead. The man had been an orphan but had not lived at Sun-
nyside. However, he did know about another man in the area who
he thought had lived at the orphanage. Ronnie obtained the infor-
mation in subtle ways without giving any hint of his mission. This
had to be Billy.
He began to go over in his mind again how he would approach
the man and how he would drop hints until Billy caught on. He
would pretend to be looking for work, and if he were hired he
would take his sweet time about things. First he would establish for
certain that the man had actually lived at Sunnyside. That settled,
 147

he would say something like, “Have you dumped any little girls in
mudpuddles lately?” That should do it.
Walking, he neared the farm, and his heart began beating fast
in excitement. He would knock on the door and if the lady of the
house answered the knock, he would find out where her husband
was working. No doubt he would be in a field somewhere. When he
found him he would say, “Howdy. Are you Eli Barber? I’m looking
for a job. My name is Clem Wessel.”
 148

H i s La st Jo k e

To him the fact that dangerous criminals were taken out of

circulation by his work meant little. The love of the chase was eve-
rything, and once he nailed them he lost all interest. Crime detec-
tion, the solving of mysteries, piecing together obscure clues and
coming up with the correct answers seemed to be his only excuse
for living. His idea of relaxation and amusement when he was not
on an actual case was to fabricate a mystery in his own fertile
imagination and feed me subtle clues until either I gave up, which
usually was the case, or the answer became so obvious that even a
reasonably bright moron could have caught it.
Therefore I was not surprised that my partner, Pat Brooks, in-
stead of writing the name of his killer in the dirt where he fell,
chose to scratch out a clue as his life slowly oozed out the gaping
knife wound in his back and only a half inch from his heart. I can
just see the devilish smirk on his face as he scrawled the words on
the ground. That’s the kind of guy he was.
His casual approach to life always did amaze me. I remember
one night when we were in a life-or-death situation, and I was
scared out of my wits. His quips were as light and nonchalant as if
we had been sitting in my boat on Lake Casitas and fishing for bass.
There was not a vain molecule in Pat’s body. A lot of people
will claw, trample, and climb over their fellow workers to get to the
top, but he cared not the least bit for personal recognition. Lieuten-
ant Berk usually got the credit for solving the tough cases, and that
was fine with Pat. He appeared to me to be perfectly content with
his low profile. “Jerome”, he would say to me, “when a cop starts
 149

craving fame, he is on a down hill slide. He will have his priorities

all wrong.” Funny, he always called me “Jerome”, never “Jerry”.
We were patrolling on Alameda Street in south Los Angeles
that foggy night when we thought we say a flash of light among the
junk cars in a wrecking yard. It was well past midnight, and the yard
long since had closed. I slowed the patrol car, and Pat kept his eyes
on the area, but the flash was not repeated. Streetlight illuminated
the intersections, but out in the midst of the acres of wrecked cars
it was as black as a Halloween tomcat in a coal bin.
“Drive on past for about a block and let me out,” he in-
structed. After I stopped he told me to stay with the car while he
went back to investigate. I was to bring the car back around and
pick him up when he gave me the sign with his flashlight. “Ten to
one it will turn out to be a kid whose old man won’t give him the
money to buy a part for his dunebuggy.” Then he disappeared into
fog.
I expected him to come back to the street before beaming the
signal, but it came from well inside the yard, three quick flashes.
That meant an emergency. Hurriedly I turned down the side street
bordering the yard, shining the spotlight along the chainlink fence
as I drove. I stopped when I saw the hole in the fence that someone
had cut.
Pat’s flashlight was still on, and it served as a beacon as I
picked my way around rusted metal corpses. I remembered having
seen a pair of headlights come on and a car drive away just as I had
turned off Alameda and onto the side street, but it had been much
too dark for me to make out anything about the vehicle. Evidently
the suspect had eluded Pat.
My first thought when I saw him lying face down beside a
wrecked late model VW was that probably he had been knocked out
by a clout on the head, but then I remembered that he had given a
signal with the flashlight, a thing which surely he would not have
done before he had his man in cuffs. My next thought was that a
second person had sneaked up behind him while he was occupied
with the first, but I knew that he was far too experienced to let that
happen, and a great fear seized me as I approached. The bloody
shirt confirmed my fears.
I checked for pulse. He was dead, no doubt ambushed from
behind. I was almost certain that the killer had driven away in the
car I had seen. Pat had remained conscious long enough to scratch
these words in the dirt: METEOR BACKWARD—YOU ARE ON YOUR
OWN.
 150

He must have managed to get a glimpse of the assailant before

collapsing, and I felt sure Pat had recognized him and that the
words in the dirt were a clue to the murderer’s identity. Yes, that
would be just like my partner—playing the game to the very end.
Before calling 911 I carefully erased the words, knowing they were
meant for me and no one else.
Well, at least I would be spared the task of breaking the awful
news to a widow or close relatives. The only kin he had ever men-
tioned was a half brother living somewhere back east, and they
never kept in touch. I was so shaken that I took a couple of days
off. I tried a little bass fishing, but my heart just wasn’t in it. All I
could think of was METEOR BACKWARD. I tried ROETEM, but I knew
that would not be the killer’s name. That would have been too easy.
Darn him and his little games, anyway! I never did like them, and
this one I especially did not relish.
A meteor, I knew, is a piece of space debris which has come
within the gravitational pull of the earth and burns from friction as
it falls through the air. If it doesn’t burn up entirely and hits the
ground it becomes a meteorite. But had Pat known the difference?
Suppose I spent days racking my brain think about a shooting star,
when what he had meant was a piece of charred rock lying some-
where out in the desert? But he was no dummy. I would have to as-
sume that he meant exactly what he had scrawled in the dirt. Did he
mean the word spelled backward, or was I to visualize a meteor
whizzing through the air in reverse? One could never tell about that
guy. One thing, though, I was sure about—I certainly was on my
own.
We had been partners for three years and had become close
friends almost from the start. We were pretty much alike in our ba-
sic philosophies, but other than that, all was contrast between us,
he tall, olive complexioned, black haired, brown eyed, and hand-
some enough to be the leading man in a high class moving picture.
I’m short, pudgy, light skinned, mousy haired, washed out blue
eyed, and I don’t even come close to being good looking. His voice
was deep, resonant, well modulated, while mine is rather high-
pitched, a strident wheezy squeak. He was of the type who makes
friends quickly and easily, but it usually takes people a while to
make up their minds about me. The chief difference, though, and
the one of which I’m so conscious, was his keen analytical mind and
quick wit.
I know for a fact that Pat could have advanced to the top in
the department had he so chosen. I like to flatter myself that he did
 151

not want to leave me behind, but deep down I know he merely

wanted to avoid the limelight and keep doing what he loved most.
He was not a desk and paper man. He was perfectly content with his
station in life, and our superiors were more than happy to turn him
loose on difficult cases and take all the credit after he solved them.
Now there was no one to feed me additional clues, and it waa up to
me to think or thwim, as the saying goes. I told no one about the
clue which he had left, and while the other homicide detectives
were busy with the conventional routine investigation, I set about
endeavoring to whip my balky brain into some semblance of
composed orderly activity.
I reasoned that since Pat evidently had recognized his killer, I
must know him also. No doubt it was someone who had had a brush
with the law before, but for the life of me, I could not connect any
of them with the word METEOR. I pored over the records of recent
arrests, beginning with petty thefts. Then it occurred to me that a
small time thief would not resort to murder, especially of a police-
man. All these punks know they can get out of jail so quickly that
the jailor hardly has time to lock the cell door.
No, the villian who stabbed my partner surely was playing for
much higher stakes than stealing a used part from a junkyard. Nor-
cotics. That had to be it. But it didn’t make much sense to suppose
that drug dealers would use a wrecking yard for their place of con-
tact. Almost any other place would have been more convenient and
far less risky. There must have been something special about that
particular Volkswagen.
I decided it was time to pay another visit to that wrecking
yard, only this time by day during business hours.
“What’s with you cops, anyway?” the owner asked with no at-
tempt to conceal his peevishness. “You guys keep secrets from each
other? I wasted a whole hour the other day answering the same
questions you’re asking. Why don’t you go talk to Fatso? I told him
all I know, and he took notes.”
I mumbled a sort of apology and left. “Fatso” was Lieutenant
Berk.
“Well, hello there, fisherman,” he ribbed me as I walked into
his office. “What’s your excuse for getting skunked this time? Did
the bass have lockjaw again, or were they out hiding behind an oak
tree?” Then seeing that I was in no mood for banter, he grew seri-
ous. “We got ‘im, Jerry. Got the bastard dead to rights. That new
VW was wrecked down in Baja and towed all the way back up here.
Nearly a half million bucks of uncut heroin in the tires, all packaged
 152

up nice and neat. We also got a signed murder confession, not that
we really needed it. The guy left his prints all over the bug, and we
got the murder weapon. I’ll give the jerk a little credit though. He
was smart enough to know his best bet was to come clean and hope
for leniency from a judge and jury. He can afford the best lawyer in
the world.
I held my breath as I asked who it was. “Young punk you and
Pat arrested one time and had to release for lack of sufficient evi-
dence. Name is Wayne John.”
It took a few seconds to sink in. METEOR, a shooting star. Say
Wayne John backward, and you have the greatest shooting star of
them all.
 153

T h e T r ee Cr ad l e

"If this tale seems totally unbelievable, let me remind you that
we live in an age when many things we take for granted now were
never even imagined a few hundred years ago. For example, if
someone in the seventeenth century had theorized about DNA, the
genetic blueprints of every living thing, he would have been in dan-
ger of being burned at the stake.
The huge old tree had created its own clearing by poisoning
all other growth surrounding it. No one knew what kind of tree it
was. Maybe there was none other like it in the entire world. Be that
as it may, it was unique in another way, having four branches that
spread out from the trunk about ten feet up and forming a kind of
basin and cradle large enough for two people to lie in it.
Tom Patton and Ellen Gainey had spent many hours doing just
that. I met Tom last year when I went to Virginia to visit my grand-
parents, who owned the farm on which the tree grew. Tom told me
this strange love story one day when I saw him at that tree. I was
wandering alone in the woods, and we just happened to arrive there
about the same time. This is his story as he told it to me.
I met Ellen for the first time right here about twenty years
ago. I was an avid bird watcher and photographer. She was up in
that cradle and singing, unaware of my presence as I walked up.
Never was there a bird as beautiful as Ellen, nor could any bird sing
the way she did. However, I listened to her lovely voice perhaps an
hour before I caught sight of her.
I have the unusual ability to mimic the sounds and songs of
birds, including canaries and mockingbirds. After listening to her
sing a while I began to accompany her with bird songs, harmonizing
with her notes. It didn't take her long to realize something odd was
going on. Lying in the tree cradle she had to sit up in order to view
her surroundings. I hid behind a tree at the edge of the clearing and
kept quiet as she looked around. When she lay back down and re-
 154

sumed her singing, I resumed my bird songs. Every time she would
pause I would do the same.
I kept up this little game until she called out, "Who's out
there?" I came forward and we began to talk. I knew almost at once
that we were meant for each other, and she knew it also. We met
secretly at the tree every day for a week after that. We wanted to
marry, but there was a hitch. Her parents were members of a relig-
ious sect that condemned all other religions and denominations.
She told me that if they ever learned that she was seeing an "out-
sider" they would put a stop to the romance. Although outwardly
she obeyed her folks, inwardly she was somewhat a rebel, and we
agreed to elope.
It took her father less than a week to find us and have the
marriage annulled, for she was only seventeen. I was nineteen, and
had I been two years older I'm sure I would have been charged with
statutory rape and sent to prison. As it was, we were forbidden to
see each other. Her parents selected a "suitable" young man for her
and arranged a wedding. This I learned from friends.
On the eve of the wedding, Ellen disappeared, and the whole
community was in an uproar. Naturally, I was suspected, and the
sheriff paid me a call. Fortunately, I had witnesses who convinced
all concerned that I had nothing to do with her disappearance.
Apparently Ellen and I were the only two people who knew
about the tree cradle and our trysts there. The search eventually
was called off, it being assumed that Ellen had left the area. I had a
different idea. When I deemed it safe, I sneaked back to the tree,
dreading what I thought I would find. Her clothes were there in the
cradle, but her body was not. An odd thing about the clothes was
that they were lying as though she had evaporated from them. They
were not torn or in disarray. I told no one. The mystery was never
solved, and eventually I came back home to California, where dur-
ing the next twenty years, I went through three marriages and di-
vorces. It was unfair to those women, but my heart was not with
any of them. That little love nest in this tree was ever on my mind.
At last I had to come back here to it.
That’s the story except for the strange ending. As Tom Patton
finished his story, suddenly he held up his hand, a signal for silence.
“She's singing and calling me!' he exclaimed. 'Don't you hear her?”
Naturally, I thought the guy had lost his mind, or that perhaps
he had been on dope of some kind. “Please leave now,” he said to
me. “I must go up there to her.” Of course I departed, sure he
would snap out of it after a while. I was wrong.
 155

A few days later, out of curiosity, I went back to take a look.

Tom's clothes were lying undisturbed in the cradle, but he was no-
where to be found. I have no way of knowing for certain, but I don't
think the bodies of the lovers evaporated. I think somehow they are
in that strange tree."
 156

Li ’ l A d am

"These burros are wild and are led by an old jack that must
have been domesticated at one time. All the others are wary of
people, but he comes right up to the car and pokes his head into
the open window to be fed a morsel. We gave him an apple; then I
got out and petted him."
Don Beckman, red bearded and with the physique of a Sumo
wrestler, clicked to another slide. "That guy sunning himself on the
rock is a chuckwalla, an iguanid lizard of arid parts of the south-
western United States and Mexico. He is a vegetarian and feeds on
desert plants." (Click) "I was lucky to get this one. This old coy-
ote—"
"Hold it a minute, Don. Let's see that last slide again." Phil
Meehan, tall and slender but muscular with jaws that seemed to be
designed for biting through stainless steel, was one of a half dozen
guests, friends of Don, who were viewing slides of desert wildlife.
Don obliged him.
"What's that just above and a little to the left of the lizard?"
"You see something unusual?"
"I'm not sure. It's way out of focus and partially concealed
among the rocks by brush, but it sure looks like a human face."
"A skull? I don't see it."
"Not a skull. Look about fifteen feet beyond the chuckwalla
just to the left of the black rock."
"I still don't – Oh, yeah, now I do. By damn, it does look like a
man with the eyes of a lemur. But it's so tiny—way too small to be
human."
 157

Loretta, Phil's wife, became excited. "There is a legend among

the Navajo of a diminutive people who live underground and are
very rarely seen. Of course no one took the Indians seriously. Al-
most every tribe of the, shall we say, less advanced people of the
world has its own legend of shadowy humanoid beings. There is the
Abominable Snowman or yeti of the Himalayas and Sasquatch or
Bigfoot in our own country. The Irish have their leprechauns, but
that probably should be assigned to the fairy category, which no
one takes seriously.
"Not all people, though, discount as nonsense the other leg-
ends. As a matter of fact, Professor Walcott of the University of
Idaho has conducted a ten-year study of the legends of primitive
people and claims that most of them have a basis in fact. For centu-
ries the civilized world did not believe reports concerning Pygmies
in Africa.
"The professor and his colleagues have traveled the world and
have amassed reams of convincing evidence supporting claims of
these strange elusive creatures, although he doubts that any of
them have survived to the present time."
Don grinned. "Do you believe him?"
"I don't know what to believe, but when I read the article I
was half convinced. A lot of intelligent folk still believe the remains
of Noah's ark lie atop Mount Ararat in Turkey."
"Sure, and some people have been taken aboard UFO's."
Phil came to the defense of his wife. "I don't claim to be ex-
ceptionally smart or to have any inside dope on this stuff, but I do
believe there is a hell of a lot of things we still don't know about
this old world and its inhabitants. I don't know of any scientist who
denies there are strange phenomena no one has been able to ex-
plain. Charles A. Lindbergh, who was no superstitious bumpkin,
claimed that spirits entered his plane and talked to him during his
famous solo flight from New York to Paris in 1927."
"True," Don agreed, "but remember, Lindbergh was fighting to
stay awake. The mind can play tricks when you're in the first stages
of slumber. A truck driver friend told me a patrolman stopped him
one day after he had been driving hours on end and asked why he
had pulled over into the left lane. When my friend explained that he
had gone around a slow rig, the cop told him he had been dream-
ing, that there was no other truck within miles."
"Okay, okay," Loretta said. "What about this picture? Is that a
dream? And while we're on the subject, you might consider this:
Ivan Sanderson, in his book of Great Jungles, asserts that a scientist
 158

trained in Europe may think what native hunters in rain forests de-
scribe is utterly impossible, but he often finds that they speak the
truth.
"Such is the case of the didis or dee-dees in Surinam as re-
ported and described by Sir Walter Raliegh in 1595. According to
him they are elusive, hairy men of the deep jungle and feared by the
natives.
"In 1769 an English botanist, who was a friend of Benjamin
Franklin in Paris, also brought back an account of the dide. A British
magistrate saw two of them in 1910.
"Sanderson goes on to name many other bands of jungle in-
habitants, some large, some diminutive, in the various jungles of
the world. These generally unknown hairy man-like creatures are
described as very elusive and walk upright. They certainly are not
apes. The actual existence of some of them has been established
only recently."
Doris, Don's wife, shrugged. "So what? The American deserts
are not exactly steaming jungles in which a whole herd of elephants
can hide."
"True, but who can say that in all that vast unhabited expanse
there are not creatures totally unknown to civilized man?"
Don apologized. "Sorry, Loretta. We don't mean to be argu-
mentative. I don't know what to make of this. The picture is fuzzy,
but one thing's for sure – those eyes belong to a living creature.
And it's no animal I have ever seen, although I thought I'd photo-
graphed just about every kind of beastie in North America."
"Do you think you could locate that exact spot if you and I
should go back out there?" Phil asked.
"I think so. The tire tracks of my Bronco will be easy to follow
unless it has rained hard there. The area is subject to local flash
floods, but, yeah, I'm sure we can find the place."
Doris, began to laugh. "Let's all promise not to tell anyone
about this. I don't want some clown coming up to me and saying,
'How is the boys’ search for Littlefoot coming along?'"
The day, what remained of it, was still hot and the primitive
campground deserted. The two instant anthropologists decided to
make camp and await the morrow to begin their search. Don had a
vague idea of the location and thought it would be better to arrive
at the general area where he had taken the picture at about the
same time of day, when the shadows would be the same.
They pitched the small tent and ate a cold supper. Because
lingering heat made the tent too uncomfortable for sleep, they sat
 159

on folding chairs outside until almost midnight and looked at the

stars, watched for orbiting man-made satellites, and speculated
upon what they might discover the following morning.
"You know," Don ventured, "I can't help feeling a little silly
about this. I'm not so sure that the face was anything other than
markings on a rock. Maybe some artist decided to get in a little
practice."
"Flat paintings don't cast shadows," Phil pointed out. "The
thing is alive and might be prowling around out there at this very
minute. The large eyes belong to a nocturnal creature." Phil, an ex-
perienced hunter, had spent many years observing animals.
"You don't believe that Navajo nonsense about furtive little
people who dwell under ground?"
"Hell no, but it's possible that we might discover a rare ani-
mal, maybe one no civilized man has ever seen. That face, though,
has me baffled. It's just too darn human. I got the eerie feeling
when I studied the picture that intelligence was behind those eyes."
"What will we do if we see it? Try to capture it?"
"If we see it, you try to get a good picture. I don't want to take
a chance of injuring it. If it is a burrowing animal, maybe we'll try
to dig it out to get a real good look at it, but I'm not counting on
having that kind of luck. We'll be fortunate if we locate tracks and
other sign that might tell us something about it."

The morning dawned clear and cool. After a breakfast of ba-

con and eggs and hot coffee, the men broke camp and set out to
look for a creature they jokingly dubbed "Li'l Adam".
"About sun-up would be a good time to begin our search in
earnest," Don said. "The sun had been up about half an hour when I
snapped the picture last week. The shadows should be about the
same. A place can look different at different times of the day. Also
the chance of seeing the creature diminishes as the day advances."
The terrain was rough but firm. The four-wheel-drive was not
likely to become mired in loose dirt. The tracks made earlier were
easy to follow, but there were miles of them, and Don saw no point
in following all the twists and turns. He thought it better to cut
across and try to pick them up again near the place where the pic-
ture had been taken.
In a sandy dry wash they saw animal tracks and stopped to
examine them. "Bobcat," Phil announced. "These feathers tell me he
breakfasted on a quail. This wash is a highway for coyotes, too.
Hey, Don! Take a look at this. Holy sox! I don't believe this."
 160

Don looked at where Phil pointed. "Human footprints. Or are

they? Too small for a kid old enough to mess around out here. No
shoes. And no adult prints — unless the thing that made them is an
adult."
The tracks under scrutiny had been made in the moist sand
where a burro had urinated and were sharp in outline. There was no
mistaking the shape. The two men stood looking at each other and
felt shivers race through their bodies. Maybe they themselves were
being observed by eyes too big for a normal human. They followed
the tracks up the wash.
"The being that made these prints walked on two legs," Phil
stated. "I'd guess it is less than three feet tall. As you can see, the
tracks are hardly more that a foot apart. I think it was following the
bobcat."
"Or vice versa."
"No, he stepped on the cat's tracks. What's that up ahead?
Looks like blood on the sand. It is. This is where the cat thrashed
about in its death throes."
"How do you know it was the bobcat?"
"Simple. Only one set of footprints lead up out of the wash,
and they were not made by a cat."
Phil raced up the bank of the shallow wash and looked about.
"We might as well go back to the car," he said when he returned.
"The ground is far too hard and rocky to leave any more prints, and
our little man is too shrewd to stay out in the open."
"You're ready to concede that this — this thing is human?"
"Did you ever know an animal to shoot a bow and arrow?" Phil
showed him a tiny broken arrow shaft with the feathers still intact.
"That means they are hunters, assuming there are more than
one."
They drove for another fifteen minutes, cutting back and
forth looking for tire tracks. "Over there." Phil pointed to the left.
"I think we're getting close," Don said after driving another
hundred yards. "The terrain looks right. Yeah, this is it. I stood right
here and shot the picture of the chuckwalla sunning itself on that
rock." Then he added significantly, "and I don't see any painting of
a face on the rock above it or anything else that looks like a face."
They walked over to take a look. "Here is where Li'l Adam hid
while you took the picture. A broken twig or two, but no other sign.
Let's go back home. If we tell this we won't be believed, and it
would be better that way. Otherwise some nut with a rifle would
hunt him down and shoot him, or else he would end up in a cage."
 161

"What if there is a colony of them? Some day they will be dis-

covered. I would like to know if they really live in holes like coyo-
tes. Maybe there are caves around here that no one knows about."
"Not likely. Miners and hunters have been combing this area
for a hundred years."
"Even so, there still could be a cave around here. The enor-
mous Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico had only a tiny opening when
White discovered them."
Phil nodded. "What do we do now?"
"I say let's search this place for more sign. The den, or what-
ever, must be close. That bobcat was a pretty good load for our lit-
tle hunter, and I'll wager he's within a mile of where we stand."
"Okay. Say we find him. Then what?"
"Obviously he's human, and people of every known race
speak some kind of language. We can let him know by gestures that
we mean him no harm. If we can establish a kind of mutual trust or
friendship then perhaps we can learn his language."
"I don't know, Don. If I understand history and human nature,
the most primitive tribes always are dominated and exploited by the
more advanced. Since the ancient Navajo knew about them that
means there was contact between the two. The little ones probably
have very good reason to be secretive and to avoid discovery at all
costs."
"Perhaps, but on the other hand, suppose they are in desper-
ate need of help. We have no idea how many of them are left.
Maybe the race is dying out. That would be tragic. Near starvation
or inadequate diet down through the centuries probably accounts
for their tiny size. I say we try to find them and help them if there is
need."
"Okay. What do we look for?"
"First we try to discover where they congregate or where
there are signs of traffic, like a beaten path. Once we locate that I'd
guess we would be close to their dwelling."
"What if it turns out to be a cave and the entrance and pas-
sageways are too small for us to negotiate?"
"Let's take it one stage at a time, okay?"
Phil shrugged. "You're the boss."
"I'll park the Bronco on top of that knoll over there. It's
amazing how easy it is to get lost among boulders and washes.
When north seems like east or some other direction, everything
seems different and strange, even a familiar street. Then we'll sepa-
 162

rate and scout the area in ever widening circles. The first one to
find anything will go to the Bronco and blow the horn."
"Agreed."
Five minutes later Phil called out, "Don, can you hear me?"
"Yeah, man."
"Come take a gander at this."
As it turned out, they were only a few yards apart. Phil was
waiting in a sandy dry wash beside a large boulder when Don
walked up. "I think I interrupted our man in his task," he said, di-
recting attention to a partially skinned bobcat. "He dropped every-
thing and took off in a run when he heard me coming."
"Did you see him?"
"No."
"Why didn't he skin and draw the cat where he killed it? It
would have been lighter for him to carry."
"I think he might have heard us and wanted to get the hell out
of there, and leaving the hide on would make it more comfortable
to carry on his shoulder."
"Does that mean we are close to his hideaway?'
"Could be. I suggest we finish his job and give it to him if we
can find him."
"Good idea. Let's follow the tracks."
"He won't stay in the wash. Too easy to trail him, and he
knows it."
Phil was right. Just around a bend the tracks showed where he
had climbed the bank.
The area was rugged and strewn with boulders of all sizes.
Ridges, deep cuts, desert growth and boulders provided good hiding
places and made trailing all but impossible. "Keep an eye out for a
big hole or a cave entrance. I've a feeling we're getting warm."
Don laughed. "I've been getting warm ever since that sun
came up. Which reminds me. There's got to be water holes in this
damn desert. Burros have to drink."
"Oh yes. There are seep springs and natural cisterns that col-
lect rainwater. People have died of thirst within yards of such
places, completely unaware of their existence."
"You and Loretta lived for a time among the Navajo, didn't you
Phil?"
"In New Mexico as missionaries. Tough job. Very few converts,
but we did learn to speak the difficult tonal language to some ex-
tent."
 163

"Wouldn't our man and his people be located near one of the
watering places?"
"Probably, but it may not be known to anyone else. Some
large caves actually contain running streams."
"I've read about such places. Tiny fish without eyes because of
total darkness for countless generations. Darwin would have loved
it."
"What about Li'l Adam? He's all eyes."
"Semi-darkness, big eyes. Total darkness, no eyes. But that's
over millions of years of evolution and adaptation."
"Moles have small eyes."
"That's because they spend most of their time in confined
places and don't depend on sight very much."
"You suppose these little people have lived on the verge of
starvation for millions of years?"
"It wouldn't take that long for them to reach their present
size, assuming of course, that they are all small. Their breeders de-
liberately starved lilliputian horses in order to make them tiny. A
reasonably strong man can pick up and carry a fully-grown Lillipu-
tian. It didn't take all that many generations of starvation and selec-
tive breeding."
"Do you think the Indians did to these people what the horse
breeders did to their horses?"
"It's a thought. That would imply masters and slaves."
"Uh huh. It might also account for their furtive nature. They
may have escaped by going under ground — literally."
Phil looked at the skinned and gutted cat he was holding. "I
hope we find him soon. This meat is going to spoil. Imagine people
having to live on crap like this. I'll bet this cat is so tough and
stringy you couldn't stick a fork in the gravy. The desert is unpre-
dictable. Some years game is plentiful; others, very scarce."
"All the more reason to help these people. I just had a
thought: What if this guy is an aberration, a hermit, a one-of-a-kind
troglodyte freak?"
"Let's ask him."
"What?"
Phil cut his eyes to his left and motioned with his head. Not
twenty feet away stood a tiny albino-like man in the shade of a large
boulder. Entirely naked and completely hairless, muscular and well
proportioned except for the eyes; he stood watching his pursuers.
He raised the bow and drew back the arrow when he realized he
had been seen.
 164

Quickly Phil pointed to the cat and held it at arm's length to-
ward the archer. The man hesitated then lowered the bow. He mo-
tioned for Phil to lay it on the ground. Phil complied and waited.
In a surprisingly deep and vibrant voice the man said a word
in the Navajo tongue. The command was, "Go!"
"We want to help you."
"Go!"
"Are you hungry? We have food. We will not harm you."
Li'l Adam appeared undecided. Then with bow and arrow at
the ready he began to advance warily. He halted about ten feet
away. They stood eyeing each other.
"Do you live alone?"
There was no immediate answer as if the question was being
weighed carefully. At last he lowered the bow and held up five fin-
gers, closed the hand and held up three more fingers.
"Your family?"
The conversation was difficult and halting. Phil could only
guess at most of the words, evidently a much-altered form of Na-
vajo. No doubt the people had lived so long in isolation they had
developed their own patois.
After much questioning, grunting, hand signs and some intel-
ligible exchange Phil succeeded in piecing together a fragmented
history of the little man and his people.
As he and Don had suspected, the man and his family were on
the very verge of starvation. Otherwise he never would have
chanced the encounter to retrieve his kill. Tradition handed down
from generation to generation was the reason for the fear and
dread of all outsiders, especially the Indians.
Only he and his family remained, having survived by virtue of
being the strongest and resorting to cannibalism. He steadfastly re-
fused to tell where they lived, not even the nature of the dwelling.
Then he picked up the cat, darted around a boulder, and was
gone. "Now what?" Don asked. "Do we follow him?"
"No. Did you get a picture?"
Don grinned foolishly. "I didn't think of it. I even forgot I had
a camera."
"Some photographer you are! It's just as well you didn't.
"They need help. Those people are living like moles."
"They've adapted. Likely their salamandrian bodies couldn't
make another drastic transition. Too much sunshine would kill
them. Let them continue their subterranean existence."
 165

"They'll starve. Game is scarce in bad years, and hunters kill it

off in good years. Eventually a hunter or a rock hound will make the
discovery."
"There's really nothing we can do about it." Phil's voice re-
flected a deep sadness. "They are doomed to extinction, and heart-
less as it might seem, probably the sooner the better."
"We've got to tell our people something, but what?"
Phil considered a moment. "The truth. But not with straight
faces."
 166

T h e Reco v er ed Fi l e

This letter from my father has been locked unread in my safe

for over five years. My name is Milton Hanford, son of the late Fre-
derick Hanford. I have always known that there was a period of
several days in the life of Dad that was completely blank to him. He
and I often talked about it because of the strange circumstances
that caused the memory loss. It had happened when he was a young
man.
My curiosity has tempted me in moments of weakness to
sneak a look at the letter, but I had given him my solemn word not
to read it or allow anyone even to know about it until after his
death. I know now why he was so adamant about the matter. There
is no statute of limitations for murder. Now that he is gone there is
little point in keeping it secret. Possibly the disclosure will leave
some kind of stigma on the family name, but again perhaps not.
Evidently he wanted the affair known after he was laid to rest. The
reader can judge for himself the degree of guilt associated with his
unusual experience.
As his only heir I was left a tidy sum, but also an obligation
along with the money. Soon I'll be on my way to California and the
great Mojave Desert.

Anson, Texas
October 22, 1990

Dear Milton,
I don't know much about a computer or the human brain.
Many people have likened one to the other, and perhaps they are
similar in some ways. I do know a computer file can be retrieved af-
ter it has been dragged to the "trash can", and the same can be said
of a brain file. I have read of cases of women who were abused
when they were little, and the trauma caused the memory of the
 167

experience to shut down. Then years later the memory was dredged
up by psychiatric means.
A file, as you know, has been hidden somewhere in the con-
volutions of my brain for forty years. I never worried about it
much, assuming that the horrible experience of facing death from
thirst alone in the vastness of the Mojave Desert caused the amne-
sia, but there were always a few curious details that puzzled me.
How did that relatively new car battery, a different brand than
mine, and a shovel wind up in my old Jeep? What caused my right
hand to swell? Obviously there was at least one other person in-
volved in the incident, but I had absolutely no recollection of
meeting anyone out there.
You and I have speculated about this several times, and you
know the circumstances of my being out there in the first place, but
for others I shall relate the whole thing from the beginning.
I had just celebrated my twenty-first birthday in September of
1950. Single, restless, and hungry for adventure, I drove from
Anson, Texas, to San Bernadino, California, in my used Jeep with
the intention of wandering around in the desert. I wasn't really
searching for anything of a material nature. I just wanted to experi-
ence the solitude. As some wag had put it, I wanted to go "where
the hand of man had never set foot"–to be completely on my own.
It was not my intention to put myself at risk. On the contrary,
I didn't consider the little adventure risky at all. I was well pre-
pared, or so I thought. I had a small tent, food for several days, and
a five-gallon container of water; plenty for the three days and
nights I planned to spend out there. I also had extra gasoline.
At that time most of the desert was open to off-road vehicles,
and I felt wonderfully free as I climbed small hills and crossed dry-
washes. I photographed jackrabbits, coyotes, ravens and a herd of
wild burros.
On the second day I encountered a problem and scolded my-
self for not having told anyone where I was going. Actually, though,
I didn't have any definite area in mind when I had set out. I had a
compass and a map so that I could find my way back, but other
than that I just wanted to wander wherever my fancy dictated.
I was in a sandy wash between two steep rocky banks when
the wheels began to bury themselves to the axles. The four-wheel-
drive had easily negotiated the sand in the washes up until then. I
tried rocking back and forth to no avail. I was hopelessly stuck. The
engine began to heat as I continued to try extricating the vehicle.
The radiator boiled over and sprang a leak.
 168

There would be no search party, and even if there was an at-

tempt to find me, I was pretty well hidden in the wash. I had wanted
to be on my own. I got my wish, but I didn't particularly like the
circumstance of it. I had casually mentioned to a clerk in the store
where I bought the camping equipment that I was going out to ex-
plore the desert, but I hadn't told him where or for how long. I
could abandon all thoughts of rescue. Walking out was out of the
question.
The store clerk had suggested that I take a shovel along just in
case. Now I realized I should have taken the sound advice. I scooped
sand with my hands and the lid of my water can. I remained stuck
with a dry radiator and a stalled engine, but I had managed to move
forward a little. In desperation I used precious water to fill the
leaking radiator and hit the starter. The Jeep refused to start. I tried
to catch most of the water to pour back into the radiator while I let
the engine cool. The old battery could not withstand the constant
grinding of the starter. Now I was really stuck.
My options were few. The nearest highway was perhaps sixty
miles to the west. Even if I managed to reach it on foot in the heat I
might not be able to persuade anyone to stop to help me. My only
hope was to plug the radiator leak as best I could, start the Jeep,
and get the darn thing out of the wash.
A quart of water in my canteen was all that I could carry
when I gave up and headed west on foot. I would find some kind of
shade during the hottest part of the day and do my walking toward
the setting sun and on into the night.
The odds of my getting out alive were slim and I knew it. A
quart of water does not last long in 100-degree heat. Rationing, I
had read, doesn't help. An advanced stage of thirst can affect a per-
son's ability to think clearly, and I neared that point soon after I left
the Jeep.
Self-discipline, I told myself, was an absolute must. Panic
would be fatal. Madness was a real possibility. After walking all
night I managed to find a shade in a deep wash and decided to rest
and try to get some sleep although it was still relatively cool.
Sleep would not come, and after an hour of rest I opted to
take advantage of the time remaining before the relentless desert
sun would make further progress unbearable. With the sun at my
back I trudged another hour across several more washes and past
low hills. I drank the last drop of my water but saved the empty
canteen in case I should happen upon a spring. Perhaps I would get
lucky and come across burro tracks to follow. The wild donkeys
 169

know the locations of the few scattered water holes and seep
springs. My map showed such places in the vicinity, but I had only a
very hazy idea of my present location. If I found one it would be
mostly luck. I watched for birds and kept my eye peeled for honey-
bees. Thirst, terrible relentless thirst was driving me crazy in the
merciless heat.
My determination to live was at low ebb when I saw it–a crude
dwelling dug into the side of a small hill. Stones were stacked so as
to form a wall with a doorway. Not sure that I was not hallucinating,
I began to walk unsteadily toward it.
The next thing I remembered was waking up in bed. Until five
years ago I did not remember how I got there. I didn't remember
registering at the small hotel in Lone Pine. In the shower I tried in
vain to force my memory to function. No doubt, I reasoned, some-
one was living in the dwelling carved in the hill, saw me pass out,
and had brought my unconscious body here.
I dressed and looked at my watch. Something was wrong. Ac-
cording to my calculations the date should be September 22, but
my watch calendar showed a week later. Must have fallen and
banged the watch. I dismissed the thought and addressed myself to
a more pressing matter. I was hungry.
The motel manager was a young woman with stringy brown
hair and a Popeye, chin. As I entered the office she removed her
glasses and wiped the thick lenses with a pink hanky. "Good morn-
ing, sir," she said pleasantly. "Did you sleep well?"
"Very well, thank you," I replied. "Can you tell me who
checked me in last night?"
She looked at me with a kind of quizzical expression. "Are
you joking?"
"No. Why?"
"I thought you looked a little beat, but I didn't think you were
drunk. You got a bad hangover?"
It was my turn to be puzzled. "I haven't been on a bender, but
I think I've been in the arms of Morpheus. I passed out from thirst
in the desert. Obviously someone found me and brought me here.
Did you see who it was?"
She laughed, a kind of mocking snigger. "A likely story. Have-
n't you learned that an overdose can kill you? You better straighten
up and fly right, boy. Next time you might not be so lucky."
That ticked me off a little. "Let's get something straight. I am
not a dope user. I told you the truth. Can't you answer a simple
question? Who brought me in?"
 170

Her manner changed abruptly. "You're serious? You really

don't remember checking yourself in?"
"I couldn't have. I passed out in the desert and woke up a few
minutes ago."
"I don't know what you've been through, mister, but you were
alone yesterday when you drove that steaming Jeep in here and
rented a room. I might add that you did look like something the
cats drug in and abandoned. Are you feeling okay now?"
"Pretty good but hungry as hell. Where can I find a cafe?"
"Not very close. Too far to walk. You sure the Jeep will run?
You couldn't start it again after you checked in. I had to help you
push it out of the driveway. You don't remember that?"
"I guess my memory must have slipped a cog. Tell me where
the coffee shop is and I'll see about getting there."
The damn thing wouldn't start. The battery appeared to be
strong, but the engine had taken too much heat. I lifted the hood to
check the wiring. The battery had been changed.
I went back into the office. "Would you call a cab for me?"
"Taxi drivers like to get paid. You were a dollar and thirty
cents short last night for the room. You owe me."
I just stared at her. "Go back to your room, and I'll bring you
some breakfast," she said. "You can pay me later when you get
yourself back together. And you better do something about that
swollen hand. Is it broken?"
I wiggled my fingers. "I don't think so, but my whole arm
aches."
"I'll bet some guy's whole head aches. Would you like to read
the paper while you wait?"
"Who'll mind the store while you're doing that?"
"That's my problem."
Another shock awaited me. The date on the newspaper agreed
with my watch. A whole week that I couldn't account for. What had
happened during all that time? Where had I been and what had I
done? Had I spent days with the person or persons who rescued
me? Can amnesia really be that severe?
Forty years would elapse before I would know the answer to
those questions. Countless times I would go over the events in my
mind. Everything had been perfectly clear right up to the time I
started walking toward that place. Try as I might, the memory al-
ways stopped there. Often after returning to Texas I was tempted to
go back and see who lived there. I owed that person my life, but al-
ways I would put it off. Maybe I was afraid of what I would find.
 171

Maybe I would discover that I was insane and the whole thing had
been but an illusion. That thought had entered my mind, but I knew
it was not so. The experience had been real enough.
Eventually time blurred and dulled the memory of the incident
and it became more like a dream than reality. For the past two
years, though, for some reason visions of that place have been
flashing through my mind at the most unexpected times. For exam-
ple one evening just last week I was chatting with a friend about his
daughter's new baby when my brain seemed to explode, and sud-
denly I was walking toward the dugout in the hill. The vision was so
vivid that I thought I was actually there for a brief moment. This
time I saw a young woman emerge from the structure and advance
toward me. She was blonde and beautiful in a rustic sort of way. I
distinctly saw her long hair bound with a pink ribbon. She wore
faded blue jeans and hiking boots. In her hand she carried a large
pitcher and a drinking glass. Then the scene vanished as suddenly
as it had appeared.
I was so shaken that I had to excuse myself. My friend became
alarmed, thinking I had suffered a stroke. I have had three more vi-
sions since then, each revealing a little more. Last night as I lay in
bed the whole thing came to me in clear detail. The lost file was re-
trieved from the trashcan of my brain.
"Take it easy with the water," she said. "Swallow too much at
once and you'll lose it. How long since your last drink?" I didn't an-
swer until my thirst was quenched fifteen minutes later.
"You were in a bad way."
"You could say that. I owe you my life."
She led me through the stone doorway and into the excava-
tion. I was surprised at its size and greatly relieved. The place was
comfortably cool. The room contained a bunk bed and a cook
stove, a table with two chairs and a crude cupboard with dishes.
Spikes had been driven into the dirt and rock walls on which hung
various pots and pans, a gasoline lantern and clothes evidently for a
man. Two pairs of boots stood on the dirt floor.
I nodded toward them. "Your husband's?"
"My father's. I'm not married."
I suppose my face revealed a kind of satisfaction at hearing
those words. She smiled and then her expression changed to one of
seriousness. "You must leave very soon. He could return at any
time."
"So?"
 172

"If he finds you here he'll kill you. He might track you down
and shoot you anyway."
"Why, for cat's sake? I have no intention of robbing him or
molesting you. Why would he want to kill me?"
"Papa is insane. No one knows we are here, and he is deter-
mined to keep it that way."
"Why are you here and why do you stay?"
"I have no choice. I'm held prisoner here in this God-forsaken
place." She spoke with an unmistakable flat Texas accent.
"Why did you come in the first place? My guess is that you
haven't been here very long, and you're not a native Californian."
"True. Only for about a month. I live in Dallas, or did. Papa
wrote me a letter claiming he had struck it rich. He urged me to
come out and see the gold mine and to help him with the legal pa-
pers. The letter seemed urgent, begging me to drop everything and
come at once or he might lose everything.
"I hadn't seen him in more than six years. Papa has always
been, well, different–a dreamer, often talking about the vast
amount of gold still unmined in the desert hills of California. Then
one day he was gone, and I never heard from him again until I re-
ceived the letter.
"My mother died when I was two, and the loss to my father af-
fected his mind. He was never the same after she died. It was just
the beginning of insanity, I'm sure now."
"Does he mistreat you? I mean—"
"Not physically." She indicated a curtain partition. "I have my
own room and bed in there."
"What about the gold mine."
"Pure fiction. When I confronted him about it he said he was
on the verge of a big strike. He was sure of it. All signs indicate a
mother lode. I've never seen the place, but he leaves every morning
in his army Jeep to work on it, usually getting back about sundown.
Personally, I think it's all in his head.
"I've begged him to give up the idea and take me back home. I
want to finish my education, but he refuses. I can't leave. He guards
the keys to the Jeep as if they were crown jewels, and I don't know
how to hot-wire the thing. If I could manage to get away, I'd send
the authorities out here to get him, but he would put up a fight,
maybe kill someone.
"Let me show you the spring where we get our water, and then
I'll show you my private gazebo on top of the hill near by. Then you
 173

must leave. Maybe you can carry enough water to last until you
reach the highway. I wish I could do better. I'm sorry."
I thought that over a moment. "What will you do–stay in this
place until you wither and blow away? I won't leave you."
"That is not your problem."
"Wrong. It is very much my problem, and together we'll think
of something. Now let's go see the spring and your gazebo."
"After I fix you something to eat. You must be half starved."
The spring was situated up a slight rise about a hundred yards
behind the dwelling. From the tracks and piles of dung, I guessed
that a herd of burros had just left. There were other animal tracks
as well, and a covey of quail flushed as we drew near. Stones had
surrounded the spring itself so that the animals could not foul the
pool of water. They drank from another pool a short distance below
the spring.
"I come here to bathe every day, and then I go up the hill to
my retreat. I spend a lot of time there. I can see for miles in every
direction. I was there when I spotted you a mile away staggering
along. I knew you would be thirsty."
The climb to the gazebo was fairly easy. An arbor constructed
of Joshua trees stood at the very top. In the cool shade was a mat
and pillow. "My only solace. By the way, my name is Mary." She ex-
tended a hand.
"A grand old name. I'm Fred."
"It's time for you to leave. You'll need a good head start, and
if you hear a motor, find a good hiding place."
"No way. When I leave, you'll be with me."
"Papa always carries a rifle. You wouldn't stand a chance. He
might even kill both of us."
"Don't under rate me. I'll give it some thought and work out a
plan. Do you think you could sneak the rifle out and bring it to me?
Don't worry; I won't shoot your dad. I just don't want him to shoot
me."
She shook her head. "He keeps it under lock and key when
he's home."
"Then can you furnish me a blanket to sleep on while I figure
things out? I'll stay hidden in the hills until he leaves."
Mary pointed to a small cluster of Joshua trees about a half-
mile west. "They would provide some shelter from the wind. I have
a sleeping bag you can use. You would probably be safe there. Papa
always goes in the other direction each morning. Just don't get
 174

careless. I'll come up here and signal you as soon as he's out of
sight."
During the next five days I saw her only late at night and then
only for about two hours each time. She kept me supplied with food
and coffee. I knew she was taking a terrible chance in sneaking out.
For some reason the old man didn't leave home. In the meantime I
was falling head-over-heels in love, and the look in her big blue
eyes told me all I needed to know. I confess I was in no particular
hurry for the affair to end. On the fourth night we began to share
my sleeping bag. I felt guilty. Even though she was as eager as I, still
it seemed to me that I was taking an unfair advantage of the situa-
tion.
Another concern seized me. Suppose she became pregnant
and it turned out I couldn't take her from that place? The thought
drove me to desperation.
"Do you think he knows or suspects something?"
"I can't be sure. He hasn't said anything. He's never failed to
go to work before, but he might be having car trouble."
"What does he do all day?"
"Work on the Jeep."
"That's the answer for us."
"What do you mean?"
"Does he leave the gun in the house while he's working on the
car?"
"Never. It's always by his side. The man is paranoid."
"Okay, here's what we will do. I'll have to catch him while he's
asleep. I'm young and strong. I'm sure I can overpower him. I'll tie
him up, take the gun and break it just in case. Then we'll load him
in the Jeep and drive out of here."
"The vehicle isn't running."
"Do you think he can fix it? We'll wait another day. If he can't
get it going by then, I'll see what I can do with it. It's our only
chance."
Early the next morning I heard the engine start. Mary signaled
me from the hill, and together we went to the dugout. She fixed me
a hot meal, and afterward we made love on her bed. We walked and
talked and billed and cooed all that day. We made plans to marry as
soon as possible.
I hid in her room before her demented father returned from
his bonanza. Concealed, I waited for him to put the rifle away, but
he didn't go near the cabinet as best I could determine from listen-
ing.
 175

"Guess what I seen today, Emma." Mary had told me that he

sometimes called her by his dead wife's name.
"What, Papa?"
"Tracks. A man's footprints."
I could hear a little gasp from the girl. So the cagey old bas-
tard did know. The raspy voice continued. "And somethin' else.
Along with them tracks were the footprints of a woman. Looks like
some man and a woman have been trompin' around all over the
place. Who you reckon they are?"
I had heard enough. He probably knew I was behind the cur-
tain. When I emerged the business end of a deer rifle was pointing
at my heart. I saw the finger tighten on the trigger.
The explosion was deafening in the cave. Mary never knew
what hit her. She had lunged at the rifle barrel but had tripped and
fallen directly in front of it. She collapsed like a sack of potatoes to
the dirt floor without so much as a sigh.
I landed a hard right to the chin, and the gun thudded to the
floor. Old Ed Crofton, father of Mary Ellen Crofton, was out cold.
That was the one and only time in my life when blind rage had me
in its grip. I snatched up the rifle, jacked another cartridge into the
chamber and blew his brains out. Oddly, I felt no emotion about
killing a man until hours later.
Trembling, I sat in a chair and tried to clear my mind. Cold-
blooded murder is a terrible thing. Never mind that my blood was
boiling when I pulled the trigger. Maybe I could claim self-defense,
but juries are unpredictable. I decided to take no chance.
The place was isolated from the inhabited world. No one knew
these people were living here. There was no reason that anyone
should know they died here. Between Mary's gazebo and my hiding
place I had noticed an excavation, a deep hole about six feet in di-
ameter.
The old man's Jeep was equipped with a wench mounted on
the front bumper. I used it and a shovel to extricate my own,
swapped batteries, and drove to the Motel in Lone Pine.
Now, son, as you know, I'm not a very religious man, but it
seems only right that these people should have a decent, civilized
burial in a regular cemetery. Take the map I have marked and a
crew of men. Search until you find that excavation. I filled it with
dirt and small boulders, but I placed rocks in the shape of a cross
to mark the place. I hope they are still there.
 176

California cities are springing up in the desert like toadstools

in a rotting log. Go before some contractor decides to build a Bank
of America on the spot.
Whether you make this letter known to others is up to you.
Please don't be too harsh in your judgment of me. You know I have
always loved you and your mother with all my heart.
Frederick R. Hanford
 177

Pau l a’ s Rev en ge

“Sheriff, come quick! This place is a madhouse. Pandemonium!

Women and kids are screaming, and the men are all scared to
death. Four guys came bustin' in here and started tossing people all
over the place. It's Bedlam. Please hurry!"
The voice on the phone was that of Wynona Armstrong, ticket
clerk at the Greyhound bus station, and she sounded frantic.
"Okay, Winnie. Be right there. Anybody hurt?"
"I don't think so, but everybody is scared."
"Are the thugs armed?"
"I reckon they got good arms, 'cause they used 'em to throw
people around."
"I mean do they have guns?"
"Didn't see none."
"All right. Stay calm and don't rile 'em."

Henry "Harmonica Hank" Green propped himself against an

elm in the city park and played "Goin' Down This Road Feelin’ Bad."
"Don't you know nothin' but them dang blues songs, Hank?"
Pig Eye Bartlett shifted the cud in his jaw and spat on the ground.
"Have you ever tried livin' on the sunny side of the street?"
Hank replaced the tiny instrument in his coat pocket. "With
my kind of luck I'd get skin cancer."
"You're the dangest guy I ever seen, Hank. How come you're
always down?"
"I was born to lose."
 178

"Born too loose?"

"Yeah. I believe everybody has a set destiny, and there ain't a
dang thang you can do about it. The destiny of guys like us is to be
losers."
"You gotta be kiddin'."
"Look at it this way. What's the most money you ever made in
your life?"
"Heck, we done pretty good last week. A dollar and a half a
hundred ain't too bad."
"What's tops you made in one day?"
"On a good day I can pull six hundred pounds."
Hank sneered. "Nine bucks. You figger on ever bein' able to
retire pullin' bolls? Farm work stinks. The only people who ever
make money on cotton are the fat cats on Wall Street. The rich got
it figgered. They pretty much tell us how much we can make, and
the only reason they want us around is so's we can make them
richer and to fight their wars. They created this dang depression.
It's the pore stiffs like us that suffer. They got all the money
hoarded so they can build skyscrapers and do their crooked busi-
ness in plush offices. Not a one of them guys ever done a day's
work in his life. Once our workin' days are over they don't give a
damn if we live or die."
"Oh, I don't know, Hank." Hoot Ratliff said. "I think Roosevelt
is tryin' to help with his New Deal."
"Oh, sure. They can't let us starve to death. A farmer has
gotta keep his mules healthy."
Pete Skaggs left his seat on the bench and sat with the others
under the tree. "I reckon Hank says it pretty good. I know a way we
can all be well off, and we won't have to do a lick of work."
Hoot shook his head. "Count me out. If you mean rob a bank,
no thanks. I ain't about to get the F.B.I. on my tail. Them guys got
machine guns, and I bleed easy."
"Not that. What I got in mind will be a cinch. I figger there's at
least a half million bucks in jewelry just waitin' for us to take it.
 179

Then we go to Los Angeles and find us a fence. I figger we can come

out with a hundred thousand each."
Pig Eye Bartlett was skeptical. "How do you know about that,
Ratliff?"
Hoot withdrew a bag of "Bull Durham" from his shirt pocket
and sprinkled some tobacco into a thin rectangle of paper, closed
the cloth bag by using his teeth to hold one loop of string, rolled
the cigarette, struck a match on the seat of his pants and lit up. Af-
ter a long drag he inhaled deeply and let the smoke slowly pour
from his mouth as he talked. "The place was busted into last night,
but the burglar got skeered off and caught before he could take
anythang. Now the place is boarded up. I seen 'em loadin' the goods
into a car. I figger they took the stuff home for safe keepin' 'til the
window is replaced. Orta be a piece o' cake."
Pete Skaggs mulled over the idea and shook his head. "Ain't
likely. Nobody's crazy enough to keep that kind of merchandise in
their house. What do you thank about it, Hank?"
"Might be worth a try. Folks in these one-horse country burgs
don't worry much about crime. Ain't one in a thousand even locks
the house at night. That burglary was a fluke. Sheriffs in these little
towns don't do nothin' but play checkers all day. Maybe scold a kid
now and then for swipin' a bar of candy. I say let's give it a shot.
Even without the swag it might be worth it. Rich people always keep
a lot of stuff in their house."
Pete held back. "I ain't so sure I want to be in on this."
Hank glared at him. "You skeered?"
"It ain't that. We don't know these folks is rich. I reckon they
ain't poor, but maybe they don't actually own that merchandise. We
might be robbin' good people who have worked hard to set them-
selves in business. You thought about that?"
"They won't really lose nothin'. The rich dudes in plush sky-
scraper offices insure all that jewelry. All we'll be doin' is takin'
back some of that money they got by the sweat of our brows. We
earned that money, and they are livin' high on the hog with it."
Hoot looked at the other two. "You boys game?"
 180

"Suits me," Pig Eye agreed. "You know where they live, Hoot?"
"Easy to find out. It'll be in the phone book. The name is Mar-
golis. That much I know."
"Okay. How do we go about it?"
"Here's what we'll do. We get the bus schedule and time the
heist so that we can be on it and long gone before anybody knows
what's happened. We tie up and gag whoever we find at the house
and get to the bus station no more than five minutes before depar-
ture time. I figger we can be a hunnerd miles from here by the time
the alarm is sounded.
"Pig, you cut the phone wire while us others are takin' care of
the other details. We don't hurt nobody if we can he'p it. And an-
other thang, boys. We don't hock no stuff 'til we get to California.
We can't leave no trail."
"Wait a minute," Pete Skaggs objected. "How we gonna eat?
We got enough for bus fare, but no more. I'm already hungry."
"Yeah, Hoot," Pig Eye said, "We gotta eat. No tellin' how long it
will take us to find a fence once we get to L.A. We'll be starved."
Hoot laughed. "Well, now, the way I figger it, Missus Margolis
will be only too happy to fix us a hot meal if we promise not to take
her weddin' ring. It's a cinch they'll have some cash. We can use
that for room and board once we get to California."
"Sounds like a fair deal to me as long as it don't take her too
long to cook us some grub. I don't wanna hang around any longer
than necessary."
Hoot became serious. "Let's do this thang right, boys. This
here will be our one and only crime. So far we all got a clean re-
cord, and once we get our hands on some real cash, we don't go
crazy and start blowin' it on fancy cars, clothes, and stuff. We don't
do nothin' to draw attention to us. We don't make a big deposit in
one bank. We spread it out, get ourselves decent jobs, and in a year
or so, we buy the chicken farm or whatever is our dream and settle
down into respectable solid citizens. Now, me, I wouldn't even
wanna pull this caper 'cept I'm tard o' pullin' bolls for a bare livin',
and no tellin' how long this dang depression is gonna last. Hoover
 181

didn't give a damn, and Roosevelt might not be able to fix thangs
any better.
"They say there's work in California, and Will Rogers says
we're headin' for a war with Germany. That means more jobs than
manpower. We get jobs in war plants and maybe we won't be
drafted. They'll take the young guys first. Do y'all agree to this?
'Cause if you don't, you can include me out."
"You got it, Hoot," Pete said. "I got no hankerin' to spend time
looking through orn bars. I've always had a notion I'd like to own a
little spread in Montana or Wyoming and marry me a good woman
to curl up with durin' them cold winter nights. I'll be glad to shake
this West Texas dirt outta my shoes and settle down. No more mi-
grant farm work for me. I'm sick of rollin' into a little town like
this, work two or three weeks helpin' to make the fat cats on Wall
Street richer and then movin' on without makin' any friends. For
once in my life I'd like to feel that I belong, if you know what I
mean."
"All right," Hoot said. "Lets get our tickets to L.A., find out
when the bus arrives, how long we have to wait in case we miss one,
and then we saunter out to the park, lie around under a tree 'til
dark and listen to Hank play some tear jerker songs."

The Margolis house nestled among large mesquite trees out at

the edge of town. Thick shrubbery made it easy for the farm hands
turned robbers to approach unseen. While Pig Eye cut the phone
line leading into the house, Hoot peeked into a window and signaled
the other two, who waited back in the bushes. Fortunately, there
were no dogs to sound alarm. The back door was unlocked, and the
men pulled on their black stocking masks and simply walked in.
Harry and Paula Margolis were at the dinner table dining
alone. "Evenin', folks," Hoot greeted pleasantly. "Looks like we're
just in time for supper." He showed them a .38 revolver. "This
here's our meal ticket."
Alarmed, Harry stood and closed his hand over the handle of
a steak knife.
 182

"Don't try to be a hero, feller," Hoot said. "We ain't here to

hurt nobody unless we have to. Show us the jewelry and we'll be on
our way — after we've had a bite or two. Me and the boys are pow-
erful hungry. Shore hope you've got enough fixed for us."
"Jewelry? What jewelry?"
Paula shook her head. "It's no use, dear," she said to her hus-
band. "They will find it anyway. I might as well get it for them.
"Smart woman." Hoot nodded to the others. "Tie him up boys.
Now lady, after you show us the goods, you can set four extry
plates. Just to make sure you remain a good hostess I'll keep an eye
on you. You will behave like good girl, won't you?"
The four pitched in and ate all the lamb chops plus all the
fixin's. Several cans and jars of various meats and vegetables had to
be opened before the appetites were satisfied. Ready to take their
leave, Hoot spotted three pieces of chocolate fudge on a plate and
helped himself to one. Pete and Hank ate the other two. Pig Eye set
up a howl of protest. "Hey, where's mine? You got any more candy,
woman?"
"Come on, Pig," Hoot urged. "Forget the candy."
"Like hell I will! You got any more, woman?"
Paula shook her head. "I'm afraid that's all there is, sonny."
"You sure?"
"Yes, but if you must have some, I can whip up another batch
in about ten minutes."
"Dammit, Pig, let's go!"
"Wait a minute," Hank said. "That was pretty good stuff.
What's our hurry? We got lots of time."
Hoot hesitated and looked at Paula "Only ten minutes?"
She nodded.
"Well, okay, ten minutes but no longer."
Exactly nine minutes later Paula brought the huge platter of
fudge into the dining room and set it on the table to cool. Greedily
the four stuffed themselves.
After binding and gagging the woman, they took the large box
of jewelry and left. Outside, Hank paused. "That went off a lot
 183

smoother and quicker than I figgered. Now we got a problem. What

are we gonna do with this stuff? We can't just go luggin' a box of
diamonds and gold into the bus station."
"We take it to the hotel and put it in our luggage," Hoot said.
"That might not be too good an idea," Hank observed. "They
got a inspection station at the California line. Sometimes they go
through your luggage."
"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," Hoot said. "We got
other thangs to worry about right now. We still got an hour to kill
before we board the bus. Maybe we should hang around here to
make sure our friends in there don't free themselves too soon and
sic the law on us."
"Okay, but some of us better stay outside in case some nosy
neighbor decides to pay a friendly call. Who knows? Maybe the
sheriff will drop by to check on the people. The whole town knows
they had a break-in."
"Hey, that's right," Pete agreed. "Let's get the hell outta here.
We can grab our luggage and hide out somewhere until bus time."

A rodeo had come to town, and the bus station was crowded.
Things were still in a state of wild confusion when the sheriff ar-
rived with drawn revolver. Little girls clutched their mothers' legs,
some women were crying, others were cursing, and a group of men
conferred in a corner.
"What's going on here, Winnie?" the sheriff asked.
"Craziest thang I ever saw, Sheriff. Four guys come bustin' in
here all wild eyed, and when they couldn't get into the rest rooms,
they started shovin' people out, men, women and little kids. They're
still in there. It's like they must have eaten a whole box of Ex Lax
each. They've missed their bus."
 184

T h e Rear i n g Of Bo b b y Leek

"Look what I caught, Mama! His name is Fred."

"Get that filthy frog out of this house right now, and don't you
ever bring anything like that in here again. You're nearly seven now,
and you ought to know better. Take it down to the creek and turn it
loose. Then you come back and wash your hands. Don't you know
toads cause warts?"
The happy smile of anticipation faded. Bobby lowered his
head and turned slowly to leave. Holding the toad with care, he car-
ried it the hundred yards down the slope to the brook, where he
released it and watched as it kicked its way across the little stream
to the opposite bank.
He liked this place with the pungent odor of cattails and the
croaking of frogs. Sometimes wild ducks would arise from the wa-
ter as he approached. The mud along the stream always contained
tracks of birds and wild animals. His half brother Lester had taught
him how to identify some of them. Once in a while, usually early in
the morning or near sundown, he would see some of the animals
that made the tracks. Coyotes, 'coons, 'possums and minks came to
drink and to catch the crawdads.
In the moist dirt between the water's edge and the banks
stood many little stacks of dried mud. Bobby knew that beneath
them were holes dug by crayfish and that the "crawdads" were in
the holes. He marveled that they were smart enough to know the
creek was drying up and that they could reach water by digging. He
remembered asking how they had learned to cap the holes with the
mud. "Instinct," Lester had said, but that didn't tell him much. He
liked Lester.
 185

Lester is smart, and he don't get mad when I ask dumb ques-
tions. He's a Vrane, and Mama says all Vranes are smart and have
class. I wish I was a Vrane instead of a Leek, because all the Leeks
are dumb and have bad blood.
The sandy path to the creek had been hotter than usual, and
his bare feet, though toughened, still hurt. He decided to cool them
by wading in the shallow water. How nice it felt! He liked the feel of
the mud squishing between his toes.
"Bobby," his mother called, "hurry up, and don't you wade in
the creek." Oh, oh. Now I’ll get a scolding. I wish Mma was like Miz
Oh, oh. Now I'll get a scolding. I wish Mama was like Miz
Stogner. Tim is lucky. His mama and daddy love him. Staying all
night with Tim is always fun, but I don't like that old gander that
chases me.
The smokehouse with hams and bacon hanging from the raf-
ters is real neat and smells good. It's the only one left in the whole
country, Mr. Stogner says. It must be nice to have a daddy like Mr.
Stogner. He tells stories after supper when the family sits in the
parlor to talk instead of watch TV.
And Cousin Alf with his white beard and his fiddle - Why does
everybody call him "Cousin" Alf? He never got married. Lester
says his sweetheart's parents wouldn't let them get married because
their religions were different. She was a Baptist and he is a Lu-
theran.
He's got a magic finger that cures ringworm. He wets the fin-
ger with his tongue and rubs it around on the ringworm while he
mumbles some magic words and the next morning the ringworm is
all gone.
He sure can play that fiddle. Humor Esk, or something like
that.
Cousin Alf says it's bouncy. Sometimes he plays sad ones like
Nellie Grey, the slave girl who was sold and taken from her lover.
This Love Of Mine is kinda sad, too, I guess, 'cause he gets tears in
his eyes when he plays it. I don't know the words, though. Maybe
Lester will sing it for me sometime. Mama says Lester has a bear-a-
tone voice. Maybe when I'm fourteen like Lester and my voice
changes I'll sound like a bear, and Mama will be proud of me, too.
Cousin Alf is smart, but he's not a Vrane. In the evening he
sits in his rocking chair out on the front porch and smokes his
pipe and watches the bullbats dive. He says the birds are catching
 186

gnats and stuff when they do that, and when they pull up out of the
dive it's the wings that make the booming sound.
I wish I could remember my daddy. Why did Mama make him
go away? Mama says Lester's daddy is in Heaven but the robber that
killed him would go to Hell. Hell is a bad place.
Tim's mama and daddy smile a lot and never tease him about
girls. I wish I could live with Tim. His mom makes real good pop-
corn balls. They're sort of sticky to hold, but they're real good and
sweet, kind of like Crac-
"Bobby! What are you doing? I told you to hurry. Why don't
you ever mind me?"
"All right, Mama. I'm a-comin'."
"Oh, no! Look at those muddy feet. You've been wading in the
creek, haven't you? You need a good spanking. Go out to the well
and wash that mud off before you come in this house. Wait 'til I get
you a pan, and be sure you bring it back."
The pump handle was hard to work, but he made it. His
mother was waiting at the door when he returned. "All right, come
on in. Elva called and asked if you could come over and spend the
night with Timmy. Do you want to go?"
"Oh, boy! Can I ride Tim's pony?"
"All right, but be careful."
"Mama, where is Africa?"
"What?"
"When we watched the lions and zebras on TV Mr. Stogner
said they was in Africa. He said it was across the ocean. How big is
the ocean, Mama?"
"Real big. Now stop asking stupid questions and go take your
bath. I've already filled the washtub with hot water."
"Mama, can I take piano lessons? Tim is learning to play. He
plays Red Sails In The Sunset real good."
"Piano lessons? You couldn't carry a tune if it had two han-
dles. Besides, we don't have a piano."
"Miz Stogner said I could practice on theirs."
"Music is for smart kids. You're just like your daddy and all
the Leeks. Not one of them was smart enough to learn anything
but dirt farming. I don't know why I ever married that man. I could
have married a doctor and be living in a nice house in town. I
should have divorced him before you were born. If it wasn't for
Lester and his job at the dairy we would starve to death. Thank
 193

goodness he's a Vrane and not a Leek. The Vranes have brains, but
the Leeks are geeks.
"Forget piano lessons. You're not a Vrane. The Vranes are ca-
naries, but the Leeks are sparrows. Canaries make music, but spar-
rows just chirp. You'll always be a sparrow. Now go take your bath
before I change my mind about letting you go."
"Is the water too hot, Mama? Last week it nearly scalded me."
"No, it's not too hot. Don't forget to scrub behind your ears.
And don't splash water all over the floor. You always make a mess."
"Mama," he called presently, from the kitchen, "where is a
towel? I'm through bathing."
"It's right on the chair by the tub. Are you blind? If it'd been a
snake it woulda bit you."
"Why do I have to sleep in pajamas when I stay all night with
Tim?"
"Because the Stogners are quality folks, and I don't want them
thinking we are uncivilized. You mind your manners, y'hear? Stay
out of the mud when you cross the creek. Use the bridge."

****

"I had a real good time at Tim's, Mama. I rode his pony. It's
real gentle, and I didn't fall off. Tim's dog had puppies, and Miz
Stogner said I could have one if it was all right with you. Can I have
a dog, Mama? I'll take good care of it. "
"That's all I need around here - another mouth to feed, but if
you'll be a good boy and always mind me, I'll think about it."
"Oh, boy! I'll name it Fritz and train it to hunt. Mr. Stogner
said that would be a good name for a Weimaraner 'cause it's a Ger-
man name."
"I just said I'd think about it. I haven't decided yet."
"Please, Mama."
"Maybe. You haven't been a very good boy."
"I will be. I promise."
"We'll see. Where is your cap? Did you lose it?"
"I guess I left it at Tim's. I'll go back and get it."
"I'd better call Elva first." Bobby, glad for the excuse to go
back to the Stogners, stood by the door while his mother talked on
the phone. At last she placed the receiver back in its cradle.
"She says the cap is there. Get back here before dark. Pan-
thers
 188

prowl around in the woods at night."

"Can I bring the puppy back with me?"
"No, it's not weaned yet. Well, what are you standing there
for?
Go!"
The sand was still hot, and a stretch of the road led through a
patch of grass burs, those stickers with barbs on the spines.
There were always some in the ruts, and if you get them in your
feet, you're in trouble. They are bad enough when they get in your
shoestrings and in the cuffs of your overalls. Goat heads he could
tolerate, but grassburs were something else. Bobby was glad he was
wearing his shoes.
Beyond the sticker patch the sand gave way to firmer ground.
Wild flowers dotted the open areas between the mesquite trees like
dabs of bright color in one of Lester's paintings. On a knoll a short
distance off the road to the right grew a cluster of several kinds of
flowers, some with red blossoms and others with yellow and purple.
Butterflies, many kinds and sizes, fluttered about them. As Bobby
approached, a ruby throated hummingbird, iridescent in the sun-
light, hovered a moment like a tiny helicopter while it inserted its
long beak into a blossom. Then it backed out a couple of inches and
zinged away. Bobby followed it with his eyes until it disappeared
among the trees.
Beyond the mesquites trickled a little rivulet called Walker
Branch. Huge pecan and black walnut trees grew along the
stream. A flock of crows evidently had a hoot owl cornered there.
Their excited cawing rang and reverberated in the hollow, and
Bobby, ever curious about such things, decided to investigate.
On the way he paused under a large oak. He knew the story
about that tree. People said a black man, accused of raping a white
woman, had been hanged from one of the branches many years ago.
There had been no trial. Later the woman admitted that she had
made up the story because the black man had refused to chop some
wood for her.
What was it like to know you were going to die in a few min-
utes? Would you be scared? They said the man prayed that God
would forgive his murderers and the woman who had accused him.
The white people were never arrested. Would God answer the black
man's prayer and forgive the whites?
This was a question Bobby hadn't thought of before. He would
have to ask Lester about that. Lester would know because he is a
Vrane and real smart.
 189

The crows were real excited now. Would they kill the owl?
How do crows know an owl is their enemy? Crows are enemies of
little birds. Mockingbirds and scissortails chase them and pick out
the feathers on their backs while they are flying.
Walking slowly so as not to scare the crows, he reached the
edge of the grove and saw the owl, a big horned owl cowering
among the branches and leaves. Fascinated by all the commotion,
he forgot about time. The sun was nearly down now. Do panthers
still prowl in the woods? Lester had told him all the panthers had
been killed, but maybe a few were still left. About the time he de-
cided to leave he heard someone calling his name. It was Mr.
Stogner. They met back at the road.
"You better scoot on home, Bobby. Your mama is worried.
Here's your cap. And here's something for your mother."

****

"What took you so long? And what are you hiding behind your
back?"
"Look what I brung you, Mama! Do you like roses? Am I a
good boy now?"
"Oh no! Elva will be furious. I'll call her and tell her what you
did, and then you will take it back in the morning and say
you're sorry. You're a bad boy, and you can't have the puppy."
"But she - "
"Now don't sass me. Go stand in the corner 'til I say you can
come out."
"But, Mama - "
"Be quiet. Go stand in the corner like I told you to. And wipe
those tears from your eyes. One thing I can't stand is a sniffling
kid."
"Mama - "
"Hello, Elva. About the rose ---- Oh, you sent it to me? How
nice of you! It's beautiful. Thank you. I'll put in a vase with water. --
-- Yes, Bobby got home okay. I thought he had stolen the rose, and I
was going to send him back tomorrow with an apology." Laughing,
she added, "We must instill integrity in our children and prepare
them to meet life's challenges, you know."
 190

T h e D r eam

It had been a most unusual dream, if indeed, that's what it

was. Dreams, Pat Nelson knew, are entirely different from reality.
Most people dream in black and white, and in a dream one does not
stay in the same place very long. A dreamer often changes locale in-
stantly without being aware of moving,
Pat had always been a prolific dreamer, but upon awakening,
always knew the dreams were just that and nothing more. Never
had he confused them with reality. This one was different. Lying in
bed that early October morning, he tried to sort things out in his
mind.
The colors were still fresh in his memory---the blue of her
eyes, the pink ribbon she had worn in her dark hair, and even the
shade of the nail polish as they had appeared in the light of the full
moon. He remembered the varied colors and the scent of the late
blooming flowers interspersed among the oaks. He had been to that
same sylvan spot near his house many times, and they appeared in
this dream exactly as they were in reality. Even the gnarled old oak
with the odd looking burl was the same in every detail.
Even so, it had to be only a dream because he could not re-
member going to the place or coming back home and getting in
bed. Only a dream, yes, but what a dream it was! As he was taking
the solitary stroll among the shadows, he was thinking about her
and craving her. In fact, she was almost always in his mind whether
 191

he was awake or sleeping, for he was deeply but secretly in love

with her even though he knew he could never have her.
She was his wife's younger sister Tanya.
She had stepped suddenly from among the trees and had
come directly into his arms.
There in the light if the autumn moon they had lingered in the
embrace, their eager lips pressed together in a prolonged passion-
ate kiss.
How could a dream seem so utterly real? As he lay in bed with
her kisses fresh in his mind, he instinctively reached for a napkin to
check for lipstick. There was not a trace. In real life Tanya had
never indicated either in word or gesture that she considered him
as anything but a friend who happened to be her brother-in-law, al-
though she must have suspected something more on his part. Not
that he had ever done or said anything openly to reveal his feelings,
but she was a woman, a sensitive and sensual woman, and that kind
always know somehow.
Pat and Debbie had been married eight years and now had two
children, a boy and a girl, whom they both adored. The marriage,
though, had never been all that he had hoped it would be. Debbie
was not the kind of woman who gives herself completely to her
husband. She was not an enthusiastic lover. However, he conceded
to himself, she was a devoted mother to the kids and generally con-
sidered a good woman. Maybe her love and devotion to the children
was part of the problem. There just was not enough love in her soul
to go around.
Tanya, conversely, was quite obviously a man's kind of
woman. Pat envied Hal, her husband, and often wondered whether
Hal fully appreciated just how fortunate he was to be married to
her.
The two families lived only blocks apart in the small town lo-
cated in the foothills of the Sierras and often did things together
such as going on camping trips. The two families spent a lot of time
together. Pat liked Hal. As a matter of fact, they were buddies and
hunting and fishing partners. Pat took special care never to give his
 192

brother-in-law cause for suspicion. If Hal ever had any inkling of

Pat's carefully concealed lust for Tanya, he never gave any hint of it.
But Debbie did know or at least suspect something. Maybe she had
noticed his frequent furtive and hungry glances toward her sister.
Or maybe he even talked in his sleep. Or perhaps it was merely his
guilty conscience that made him think she knew. At any rate, she
always seemed to arrange things so that he and Tanya were never
alone together.
There were times when Tanya would tease him just a little but
always in the presence of others and never anything that could be
construed as anything but a harmless joke. No one else would have
given her little pretended come-ons a second thought, but they
were enough to drive him wild and send his imagination soaring out
of control. At such times his aroused but restrained testosterones
would become like raging caged beasts. He was thoroughly miser-
able.
Although half mad with desire, Pat had a conscience. Even if
he thought he might have a chance with her, he would never have
tried to exploit it. He could well imagine what a divorce or an ex-
posed love affair would do to his children. They were at the age at
which they would be affected the most, and he would sooner die
than disrupt their innocent lives. To betray their trust was unthink-
able. Debbie also would be devastated, and he had no intention of
ever doing that to her.
Anyway, this kind of thinking had little bearing on the situa-
tion. No doubt Tanya would be shocked and perhaps angry were he
to allow his emotions to dictate his behavior to the extent that he
would lose control and declare to her his love.
An intelligent man, Pat realized that this unhappy state of af-
fairs was probably the cause of the vivid dream. Super charged
emotions can do strange things to the human mind. Was he slowly
losing his? Can insanity be brought on by unrequited love? Is there
a point, he wondered, in a person's nervous system at which some-
thing snaps under severe stress? Was he about to reach that point?
What if his overloaded brain should explode or snap under the
 193

strain and he should become a raving maniac? What would happen

to his family then?
An even more troubling, frightening thought entered his
mind.--- the possibility that overwrought emotions had nothing to
do with it but that creeping insanity was already at work in his
brain and was the cause of the weird dream. He remembered his
friend Lance Gainey, who was now hopelessly insane. Lance had be-
gun to delve into the transmundane until he lost all contact with re-
ality. Pat learned from a psychiatrist that the onslaught of mental
illness had occurred first. Lance had been an intelligent man and
knew he was losing his mind, but his superior intellect was not able
to arrest the process. He tried unsuccessfully to dismiss the idea
from his mind.
Then another thought occurred to him. Was this unusual
dream a kind of safety valve like that on the pressure cooker his
grandmother used on the farm to cook and can vegetables? Is a
person born with some mysterious intelligent guardian whose pur-
pose is to protect against such a catastrophe? He knew that multi-
ple personalities sometimes result when a mere infant is brutalized.
No way could a baby figure out for itself such a defense mechanism,
so there must be intelligence other than that of the baby involved.
In his case he certainly had not knowingly concocted the dream for
that purpose. In fact, to him dreams themselves were things of mys-
tery. Why do they occur? Why are they often so different from
normal thought?
A rather mild and non-violent man himself, he could not un-
derstand why some of his dreams in the past had been so outra-
geous and shocking. How could he, even in a dream, become a cold
blooded and heartless killer? In such dreams he had felt absolutely
no remorse as if he had not a vestige of conscience. Maybe in
dreams people sometimes revert to the primitive creatures they
were before mankind developed compassion. Could this explain
why in this dream involving Tanya there had been no inhibitions, no
guilt whatsoever?
 194

Could a psychiatrist help him? Perhaps, but he dared not take

the chance of a consultation. For obvious reasons it would have to
be done in secret, and secrets have a way of popping out into the
open. That would never do. Maybe this crazy love of his would
eventually just die a natural death from starvation. He would fight
the battle alone and hope to keep his sanity in the meantime.
His sanity? The terrifying thought simply would let go. Was he
already in the first stages of losing it? The thought of progressive
insanity worried him. When a person is unable to distinguish fancy
from reality, does that mean a part of the brain is disabled by a dis-
ease?
They met again the next night in the same wooded area. He
had no recollection of having left the house or how he had got
there, yet here he was and here she was as real as if they had delib-
erately planned and kept the tryst. He had heard plainly the rustle
of the fallen leaves made by her footsteps as she came running into
his arms. There was no sudden unexplained shifting of direction
that always seems to occur in normal dreams. All five senses re-
mained fully alert, and he had the presence of mind to watch for
any sign that would indicate anything other than reality, for he re-
membered perfectly the dream of the previous night. There were
none.
They lay together in the same grassy spot under the oak as be-
fore. After their passions were sated they talked.
"Are you surprised that I would do this?" she asked.
"Surprised is not the word," he replied. "How long have you
known?"
"About how you feel about me?"
"Yes. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of concealing my
love for you."
"Oh, I have known for a long time. I know bedroom eyes when
I see them, and I could feel the vibes."
"You believe lovers send out vibes?"
 195

"Of course. I answered your vibes with my own, but evidently

you are not as sensitive to them as I am. However, I couldn't let you
know."
"Why not?"
"For the same reason you had to keep silent. We can't build
our lives on the wreckage of others. That's why we can make love
to each other only in my dreams?"
"Your dreams?"
"That's right. We are really not here. This is just my dream the
same as last night."
"Now wait a minute. If this is just a dream I am the one doing
the dreaming. In fact, I have been puzzling over this very thing."
"No no, sweetheart. These are my dreams."
"This is absolutely crazy. I mean we can't both be dreaming
the exact same dream and certainly not at the same time. Or can
we? I know a way to settle that question. Are you dreaming in
color?"
"I always dream in color. Don't you?"
"Not always, and even when I do it is usually only one or two
objects I see in color, but now everything is in perfectly natural
color. I never dreamed in Technicolor before last night. Let’s try
another test." He pointed to a tree. "What do you see there?"
"I see a tree with a grapevine clinging to it. The vine is loaded
with clusters of grapes, big purple ones. Then to the right of that on
a dead limb is an old abandoned bird’s nest."
"I can't believe this. It defies all logic. Tanya, I thought you
were devoted to Hal. I never dreamed---well, I guess I did dream,
but I never thought you really loved me."
She sighed. "Hal is a good man, and I do love him in a way,
but he is not much at making love. No imagination, and his love-
making is pretty lackluster. It is never very satisfying to me. I have
suspected for years that it is the same way with you and Debbie.
She has never been intense in anything she does. I was sure you
would be a terrific lover with a woman like me. I certainly was right
 196

about that!" She paused a moment then added, "Most men would
have ended a marriage like yours. It's the kids, right?
"Exactly. Why have you stayed with Hal?"
"I can't bring myself to hurt him, and I knew you would never
leave Debbie for me, no matter how much you wanted me. You are
the only man I might have left him for had you and Debbie split.
Anyway, you and I can never make love in real life. It will always
have to be in my dreams "
He pulled her close to him. "You keep saying your dreams. I
still think I am actually home in bed and dreaming this whole thing.
That's the only thing that makes any sense whatsoever."
"That's where you're wrong, darling. We are both home in
bed, and I am having this wonderful dream."
"I know this is a crazy thought," he said, "but is it possible
that we both are really here? I mean, I can feel your body against
mine. I hear your voice. I smell your perfume. I tasted your lipstick
as soon as we kissed. I see your beautiful teeth glistening in the
moonlight every time you smile. No dream is ever like this. Can it
be that by some mysterious, unaccountable, unexplainable process
that we are sleepwalking and awaken only after we get here, and
then when we part and start home we resume our somnambulence,
remembering only the time spent together? I live about a half mile
from here and you a little farther. Can people sleepwalk that long
without awakening?" He slapped his thigh. "But this whole thing is
insane. There is such a thing as coincidence, but this is stretching it
to the point of absurdity. And to top it off, how did you know I
would be here?"
She smiled "That's one advantage of a dream over reality.
Dreams don't have to be logical or even make sense. The fact that
we don't know how we got here should prove this thing is not real."
"Yeah, I know, but darn it, it is real! You are real. I see you, I
feel you, I hear you." He presented his bare arm to her. "Here,
pinch me. Go ahead---dig your nails in until I bleed. Go on, do it."
"Don't be silly. You know I won't do that."
 197

"Okay, but I'd still like to know for sure. Let's agree on some
sign to use the next time we all get together. While we are sitting
around making small talk I will mention that Will Rogers was part
Apache. You say, 'No, Cherokee.' That will settle all doubt for both
of us."
She considered a moment. "I don't know, sweetie. I don't
think it would be a good idea for us to know that. Can we trust our-
selves? As it stands we are not certain about this, but I am almost
sure I will wake up in the morning and say to myself, 'What a fan-
tastically wonderful dream, Maybe you will do the same. That way
we can still have our love life without hurting anyone. Since we
can't control our dreams we won't even have to feel guilty. No, in
real life I won't give you any sign or hint that I know anything about
this."
"Of course you're right. Too much at stake. But how do we
know if our dreams will continue? Now that I've had you in my
arms, I'll go stark raving mad if I can't ever make love to you
again."
At that very moment, it seemed to him, he awakened in his
bed. Debbie was asleep by his side, and dawn was peeping through
the bedroom window. Now more frightened than mystified, he
reached down and picked up one of his shoes to examine it for any
sign of dampness or any other indication that he had taken a hike.
No moisture, no grass stains, nothing..
When Debbie awakened he asked cautiously, "Do I get out of
bed at night?"
"You mean you don't know? Yes, you certainly do, and you
talk to me."
"Really? What do I say?"
"You tell me you can't sleep. You put your clothes on and say
you are going to the kitchen to drink coffee and read. Sometimes I
think you wander around outside. Really, Pat, you've got to see a
doctor. If you don't know you do this, you must be sleep walking.
Are you worried over something you're not telling me about?"
 198

"No," he lied. "I'm just fine. Lots of people sometimes walk in

their sleep. It will pass."
So he had been outside. But where? Had he really gone to a
certain wooded area? This thing was developing into a crisis. To
continue without being certain was intolerable. He must know the
truth or go stark raving mad. Maybe he was already. He determined
to find out and let the chips fall where they may. If he and Tanya
had really met, she would know. And if she did know, she could not
conceal all signs of the fact.
"Okay, partner," Tanya said. Let's show 'em how this game
should be played." It was Saturday night and the two couples were
about to begin playing a game with dominoes, a game called "Forty-
two". They had just recently learned it from their new neighbors
from Texas.
Pat and Tanya were paired against Hal and Debbie. Had Tanya
put a special emphasis on the word partner? Was she thinking of
him as a partner in a different kind of game? He imagined he had
caught a slight inflection in her voice, but he could not be certain.
He searched her face. Her eyes betrayed nothing. He remembered
she had said she would give him no sign. He would have to keep
probing.
After playing a hand, he casually mentioned that Will Rogers
was a good checker player and wondered if he also played Forty-
two.
"No doubt," Hal said. "He grew up in Oklahoma, and they all
play dominoes back there."
"I understand he was part Apache." He looked intently into
Tanya's eyes. Not a flicker. If she was suppressing any reaction, Pat
thought, she would make one hell of a poker player.
"I thought he was Cherokee," Hal said.
So much for that.
He would just have to find another way. Would they ever meet
again in their secret sylvan love nest whether dream or reality?
They did. That very night. Pat had ended the game early, say-
ing he was tired and needed some sleep. He remembered going to
 199

bed about ten o'clock, and the next thing he knew Tanya was in his
arms.
"You rat!" she said. "That was pretty sneaky of you. I almost
jumped when you mentioned Will Rogers. Darling, we just can't let
this thing come out in the open. I though we had agreed ---"
"I know, I know, but do you have any idea what I'm going
through? It's killing me. I don't know whether I'm sane or com-
pletely batty. I can't go on like this. I have to know. I just have to.
Give me some sign the next time we meet in the cold light of day."
"No."
"Don't be cruel, sweetheart. We can still keep it secret."
"Ha! The next thing you know, we would be sneaking around,
and it wouldn't be in dreams. Then all hell would break loose. Hal
might even kill both of us. He is pretty jealous. He doesn't let on,
but I think he suspects something."
"What has he said specifically"
"Nothing you could pin down. It's just a woman's intuition."
"Or maybe a woman's guilty conscience?"
"I don't feel any guilt. Do you?"
"Not here with you, but it gives me hell at home."
"Do you want me to stop meeting you here like this?"
"That thought torments me."
"Then let's not make something out of nothing. It seems to me
we have it pretty good considering. My needs are being taken care
of beautifully. In fact, Hal must be wondering why I am no longer
very enthusiastic in bed. What about you?"
"Yeah, now that you mention it. Debbie says I get up at night
and maybe wander around outside. Do you?"
"I don't think I should tell you that."
"You don't have to. I know."
"How do you know?"
"If you don't roam around you would not hedge. You would
just say you don't."
"You still think we are really here, don't you?"
 200

"I'll tell you what I think. I think if I don't find out for certain
I'll end up in a straitjacket."
He kissed her repeatedly and wiped his lips with his handker-
chief. This time there would be no doubt.
As usual he awakened in bed without remembering how he
had come back home--- if he had ever left. That question he would
settle immediately.
Genuine terror seized him, however, when he reached into his
pocket to check the handkerchief for lipstick. There was no hand-
kerchief there. Then he remembered that due to an oversight he
had not carried one the previous day.
 201

T h e W o m an I n T h e Par k

For the tenth time in the last ten minutes Rick Castle turned
his left wrist toward the full moon above. One minute to midnight.
Would she show up? Maybe she had been caught trying to sneak out
of the house.
Off in the distance a great horned owl, no doubt perched on
the limb of a huge oak, uttered the question that such owls always
ask. From deep into the towering hardwood trees came the terrified
death squeal of a rabbit, probably a meal for some prowling preda-
tor. Those sounds and the gentle babbling of a brook were the only
things that intruded into the stillness of the mid summer night. Evi-
dently he was the only human being in the park at that time of
night.
Rick took a deep breath, sucking in the perfume of magnolias,
jasmine and growing things. It was an altogether perfect night he
thought, or it would be if she kept the midnight tryst. Doubts as-
sailed his anxious mind. Had she been toying with him when she
agreed to meet him? How many other guys had she charmed and
abandoned? No, no, not this girl, he tried to convince himself.
There had been unmistakable sincerity in her voice and in her man-
ner. He was sure of it and refused to speculate otherwise.
He had seen her for the first time only that morning at the
very spot where he now stood. She had been among a small group
of adults occupying a picnic table. He sat alone at another table a
few feet away and could hardly take his eyes off her. Her loveliness
stirred emotions deep within him. How could a girl attain such per-
fection? He pictured himself holding her close and feeling the beat
of her heart against his chest.
What were his chances of meeting her and capturing her in-
terest? Nil, he knew. Evidently she was a rich girl, way above his
class, as the expensive automobile parked at the curb attested. Why
would she be even remotely interested him, a working boy who
 202

could not afford a decent car or a new suit of clothes? Yet he dared
to dream and hoped for a miracle.
If she noticed him at all she gave no indication. When on the
rare occasion her eyes turned in his direction they did not pause.
Was she aware that he was drinking in her beauty? If so, no doubt
she was only amused — if she thought of him at all.
Then it happened. Her lovely eyes looked squarely at him and
she actually smiled, sending a sensation throughout his whole body,
a feeling that left him dizzy. Abruptly he arose from the table and
wandered out to the swings. He must figure out a way to speak to
her without making a fool of himself. But how? He couldn't just go
barging in on the group. He sat in a swing, slowly rocking back and
forth while wracking his mind.
The table where she sat was not visible from the swings. In a
way he was glad. The sooner he put this girl out of his mind the bet-
ter. What a jerk he was. Probably he would never see her again. That
car had New York license plates. No doubt they were rich Yankee
tourists just passing through.
With a deep sigh he arose, intending to go home when he gave
one last glance in her direction. At that instant she emerged from
among the trees, walking slowly toward him. His heart began to
pound in his chest as he stared almost in disbelief. He sat back
down in the swing and waited. At last she stood before him, flashing
that wonderful smile.
"Hi. Do you have a name? Mine's Tanya."
"Uh, yeah, I'm Rick." He wished he could think of something
clever to say, but he could only stare.
"This is a lovely park. Do you come here often, Rick?"
"Yes, I do. I like to come here early in the morning before
people begin to arrive. I love to catch the squirrels at their business
of stashing nuts in the ground and the birds at their leaf turning. Is
this your first time here?"
"No, I live a few blocks north of the park. We moved here
from New York two weeks ago."
"Hey, that's great! I was afraid you were passing through, and
I'd never see you again. Uh, I guess I should apologize for my rude-
ness at staring at you a while ago. I didn't mean to be rude, but
frankly I couldn't take my eyes off you. I reckon you noticed. I hope
you were not offended."
"Sure, I noticed, but I considered it a compliment. I never had
the feeling you were, shall we say, ogling. I think I can recognize a
leer when I see it."
 203

"I'm glad you see it that way. I don't mean to rush things,
Tanya, but do you think we could — like maybe — you know, see a
lot of each other?"
"You mean date?"
"Yeah, date." He held his breath.
"I'm afraid not, Rick. No offense, but my parents would never
approve."
"Okay, I get it. It's a social status thing, right? I must learn to
stay in my place."
"Now, Rick, don't jump to conclusions about me. I'm not class
conscious, if that's what you mean."
"Then why can't we date?"
"As I said, my parents would never go for it." She made a little
face. "I'm being groomed to marry into wealth and high society."
"And how do you feel about that?"
"I've a mind of my own, and I shall do my own choosing when
it's time, but until I'm eighteen I pretty much have to play by their
rules. As a matter of fact, they don't know I'm talking to you now.
They watch me like a hawk. They think I've gone to that rest room
over there."
"But if we were to come out in the open, maybe they would
begin to like me."
"Oh, I'm sure they would like you, Rick, but that would not be
a factor. Now if you are the son of, say, a senator and will inherit a
few million, that might get you in the door."
"Of course you know I'm not. I know I don't have the look of
aristocracy. A casual glance would tell you that. So I'm out in the
cold, right?"
She considered a moment. "We can't date in the usual sense,
but that doesn't mean we can't continue to see each other. We'll
just have to do it on the sly for a while. Next year when I'm eighteen
we can take it from there if we still want to be together."
Rick stared open mouthed. "You really mean that?"
"Sure. I've never disobeyed my parents by sneaking around,
but I'm tired of the restrictions. It isn't fair. This is not medieval
England. Don't get me wrong. I love my folks, but I need room. I'll
meet you whenever you like, but you must promise never to show
up at my door or phone me. That would put a sure end to anything
we might have going between us."
"A deal! How about tonight right here? Can you get out?"
"I think so, but I won't lie to them by pretending to visit an-
other girl. I'll have to wait until they are asleep. That might make it
 204

late in getting here, possibly around midnight. I won't be able to

stay long. Now I must get back to the picnic table before they start
looking for me."
Rick could hardly believe his luck as he paced in the moon-
light. Yes, she would show up. She had not been play-acting. He felt
confident as he checked his watch again.
What a beautiful night with the bright moon and deep shad-
ows. The setting seemed almost surreal, almost like a dream. A half
hour later Tanya still had not arrived, and he began to worry, un-
able to sit still. Another twenty minutes and he got up and wan-
dered out to the baseball diamond while he kept an anxious eye on
the picnic table. Any minute now, he told himself. Absent-mindedly
he picked up a broken bat some kid had discarded. He would take
it to the trash bin.
The clack-clack of high heels on the sidewalk sent him racing
back to the table. Why would she be running? And why would she
be wearing high heels if she had to sneak out of the house. But wait.
Something is wrong. Tanya had said she lived north of the park, but
the sound was coming from the opposite direction. Rick lived south
of the park. Tahya would not be coming from that direction.
Stepping out from among the deep shadows, he walked out to
the sidewalk and listened. Whoever was making the loud clack-
clacks was getting closer. Then he saw her emerge into the moon-
light, a woman dressed in a gossamer gown. Quickly he stepped
back into the shadows and waited. As she drew near he could hear
her gasp for breath. Why was she running? The answer in the form
of a man soon appeared, rapidly overtaking her. This definitely was
not Tanya.
Was this a rape in the making? Rick clutched the meat end of
the bat and sprang into action as the man overtook the woman and
wrestled her to the ground.
The woman fought furiously, but the man was too strong and
had her pinned down when Rick ran to them. Instinctively Rick
grabbed a handful of hair with his left hand, yanking the man to a
kneeling position. Then he whacked him on the head with the base-
ball bat. The assailant crumpled to the ground and lay still.
The woman got to her feet, and without so much as a "thank
you" continued running in the same direction she had been going
before being wrestled to the ground, the clack-clack of her high
heels fading into the night. Trembling, Rick stared after her,
stunned at what he had seen when he had looked into her eyes, the
wild, burning eyes of some wild animal. Now he began to worry that
 205

he might have killed the man. Blood oozed from both ears. He
would have to find a phone and call an ambulance and the police.
He never got the chance. The police found him as he stood over the
prone figure. The spotlight from the patrol car blinded him. "Po-
lice!" a voice shouted. "Stay where you are! Now drop the club and
lie face down on the ground."
"Now wait a minute, officer," Rick protested. "I ---"
"Shut up." Quickly Rick was handcuffed and searched.
"Look, man, I can explain this."
"Sure you can. You can explain it to a judge." The cop read
him his rights, hustled him into the squad car, and took him to the
police station.
"Rick Castle!" said Kevin Moore, the desk sergeant. Turning to
the arresting officer he said, "What the hell is this, Bill?"
"I'll tell you what the hell it is. I caught him red-handed hold-
ing a baseball bat and standing over a man he had clobbered. He'll
be lucky if the man lives."
"Rick, what have you got to say about this? It so happened
that Rick and Kevin were acquainted, having played tennis together
with mutual friends. Rick told his story, beginning with his meeting
Tanya that morning, their agreement to meet in the park, and the
circumstances leading to his arrest. He finished by adding, "I'm go-
ing to marry that girl."
"Really? Just like that? What's the girl's name?"
"Tanya."
"Tanya who?"
Rick's face turned red. He had not thought to ask Tanya's last
name. "I, um, I don't know. I met her for the first time only hours
ago."
The arresting officer, who had stood by during the interroga-
tion, burst out laughing and went guffawing down the hall. "Hold it
a minute, Bill. Did you see this woman Rick claims he rescued from
a rapist?"
"There was no woman. I think this will put a halt to the rash
of robberies we've had in the park lately."
"Kevin," Rick said earnestly, "I'm no robber. I've told you the
truth. The guy was gonna rape her. I'm sure of it. Otherwise, why
would he throw her to the ground?"
"Okay, Rick. As a friend, I'll check out your story and get back
to you later tonight. In the meantime we'll have to hold you. The
cell bunk is not too bad. Get some sleep."
"Can I call my mother?"
 206

"I'll take care of that. I'll just tell her that you're here and that
you witnessed a crime and will be late in getting home." Rick re-
moved his shoes and lay on the bunk, trying to make sense of the
events of the night. Why hadn't Tanya kept the date? Was this a case
of a rich and beautiful city girl playing games with a naive country
hick? Was she laughing at his gullibility. He couldn't believe that.
Probably her folks had company who stayed late. He would find her
somehow and learn the truth. Unable to sleep, he lay wide-eyed on
his bunk and waited. Two hours later, true to his word, Kevin un-
locked the cell door and sat on the bunk beside Rick. "You're free
to go, Rick," he said. I talked to the guy you clobbered. He will
spend a few days in the hospital and have one hell of a headache,
but he will be okay. You're in luck. He confirmed your story and
said he would not press charges. He also told me about that woman.
She is his sister and has been locked up in an institution for the
criminally insane.
"Earlier today, or rather yesterday now, she escaped and came
by his house, demanding to be given sanctuary. Instead he called
the authorities at the facility. The old gal flew into a rage and began
babbling about her mistreatment by her mother, blaming her for
breaking up her romance twenty years ago. The woman is a homi-
cidal maniac. She considers every woman her rival and has mur-
dered twice.
"While her brother was talking on the phone in another room,
she took off. Their mother lives north of the park, and this guy you
thought was a rapist feared she was on her way to kill her. You
know the rest of the story.
"Now get your shoes on and come by the desk to pick up your
things. I'll drive you home."
Relieved but still worrying about Tanya, he headed for the
desk, on the way passing the squad room where two officers were
talking. The door stood ajar, and Rick paused a few seconds to
eavesdrop, for he heard them mention the events in the park. "I
wouldn't want to tangle with that old gal," one was saying. "She
must be strong as an ox. I understand she kills with her bare hands,
choking her victims to death. She got another one tonight in the
park, a young girl. What was her name? Oh, yes - Tanya."
It was daylight when Sergeant Kevin Moore dropped off Rick
at his house. His mother was already up and had coffee made. After
relating to her all that happened the previous day and night, he
asked her to call his boss at the shoe store where he worked. He
 207

was so emotionally drained, he said, that he didn't think he could

deal with customers. He would take a day or two off.
Rick declined breakfast and lay on his bed fully dressed ex-
cept for his shoes. Turning on the radio, he listened to the morning
news. Maybe the newscaster would give Tanya's address. Also he
wanted to know for sure whether she was dead. Perhaps by some
miracle she had revived. He had heard of others coming out of it
after having been pronounced dead.
He heard his own name mentioned but had tuned in too late
to catch the first part of the newscast. He had to wait another hour
for it to be repeated. Tanya's last name, he learned, was Stephens,
but there was no address given. A mad woman in the park had in-
deed strangled Tanya to death.
Unable to rest, he put his shoes on and told his mother that
he was going to a small waterfall in a heavily wooded area a few
miles out of town, giving her explicit directions on how to get there
in case it became necessary to reach him. Parking his car on the
side of a dirt road, he hiked the quarter of a mile to the falls. Ordi-
narily the soft roar of the falls would have been soothing to Rick,
but now as he lay on the grass under the big oak, it only intensified
the deep ache in his heart. Here in this lovely sylvan edenic setting
he had planned to bring Tanya. They would lie there and plan their
future. Then they would stroll through the woods, and he would
show a Yankee city girl some of the charms of a Dixie paradise in
the country. He would lift her up to peek into a bird's nest in which
four tiny fuzzy baby birds stretched their scrawny necks; beaks
wide open, expecting to be fed.
Also there was that meadow with the wild flower covered
knoll and a million colorful butterflies. She would be thrilled at the
wild perfume and the tiny iridescent hummingbirds. But now those
heavenly dreams were never to be. He would never hold her close
to his heart and kiss those lovely lips.
What did his future hold now? It seemed so empty and bleak,
a drab existence in a never, never land. Life, he was sure, would
hardly be worth living. He told himself that he would never marry.
There would never be another Tanya in his life. Maybe he would
join the Merchant Marines and just roam the world. Fate could be
so cruel.
A slight rustle of the fallen dead leaves behind the tree
scarcely drew his attention. No doubt a squirrel or maybe an un-
wary doe that would bolt upon getting a nostril full of man odor.
"Hi," a familiar feminine voice said. "Do you have a name?
 208

Mine's Tanya—Tanya Barclay, not Stephens. Oh, by the way, our

company stayed until almost an hour past midnight last night. I
could have just died—but I didn't."
 209

A St r i n g Of Bead s

Esther gradually became aware that the car was moving. In-
tending only to relax in the back seat of the ancient two-door sedan
while waiting for her sister Vera to make the house call, she had
catnapped instead. Actually it was more than a nap, for the grinding
noise of the starter had not awakened her.
Using her hands, she shifted alienated legs and sat up
straight. Then she froze with horror, for the eyes that peered back
at her were not the soft, smiling ones of her sister, but the cold
glaring eyes of a man.
Past mid life, Esther never married. A car accident years be-
fore had left her paralyzed from the waist down.
Evidently the thief had not noticed the sleeping figure in the
back seat among the piles of boxes. They sat staring at each other
for several seconds. The terrified woman had never before seen
such a face. It was pock marked and swarthy. The fat nose obvi-
ously had been broken. The mouth could only be described as
cruel. The thick lips drew back in a sneer that revealed broken yel-
low teeth.
Pulling to the curb, he stopped. "Get out!" he snarled, his
fierce eagle eyes blazing.
"Sir, I-I'm a paraplegic. I can't walk. Please go away. This old
car is not worth stealing."
The man appeared to be undecided. Then with a foul curse he
floored the accelerator, keeping an eye on her in the rear view mir-
 210

ror. "One scream and you're dead," he warned, showing a revolver.

"You be a good girl and I won't hurt you. And if we pass a patrol car
you laugh like you're having a good time. Don't try to draw any at-
tention. No cop is going to take me alive. One false move and you
won't know what hit you. You understand me, lady?"
Instinct told her to begin screaming, but common sense pre-
vailed. From the looks of the brute he would probably carry out the
threat. Remain calm and think, she told herself. Panic might be fa-
tal. "Sir," she said with forced calmness, "why do you want a car
that should have been in the scrap heap years ago? This thing is a
wreck. Why, it even has holes in the floor. Surely you could do bet-
ter."
“What’s all that junk in the boxes back there?”
“It is household items. My sister sells house-to-house. She lost
her job as a waitress and had to sell all her jewelry to buy this old
wreck of a car. This is her first call. Now, sir, please take me back
and let me out.
"Shut up and remember what I said."
"I'll cause no trouble, but would you tell me what your plans
are?"
"I'll let you out in some back alley. You can crawl to some
house, but if there's any yelling before I get away, I'll kill you on the
spot. If you want to live to see another sunrise, you'll give me an
hour's start before the hell raising commences. After I let you out,
I'll circle around a few times to make sure you stay put. You won't
know when I might show up again, and if you're not still there, I'll
find you. Get the picture?"
"I understand, sir, but if you'll just take me back, I promise to
keep this quiet, and you can go on about your business. You started
this car without a key, and I'm sure you could do the same with a
much later model."
The man gave a short mirthless laugh. "Dames are all alike.
You think I'm stupid. Now be quiet and let me think."
Far from convinced that this beast would set her free, she de-
termined to keep her wits about her and come up with a plan. An
 211

item she had read in a newspaper years ago about a kidnapped

woman who used her lipstick to scrawl HELP on the car door gave
her an idea. It had worked then. Maybe it would again.
The window on her side was already rolled down, and cau-
tiously she fumbled in her purse for the tube of red lipstick. With
the tip exposed she let her left arm hang out.
The man thrust his right hand back over his shoulder. "Give
me the lipstick. I'm watching every move you make, and don't you
forget it. You broads are all alike. You think I'm stupid," he re-
peated. "This is the last warning. My intelligence has been insulted,
and that makes me unhappy. Maybe I'll change my mind about let-
ting you go. Don't try my patience."
Numb with dread, she mentally commanded her heart to slow
down. Gradually anger replaced fear. Ever a fighter, she had not al-
lowed the tragedy of the accident to defeat her, and now she vowed
not to submit to this monster meekly.
On the floor was an open carton of sharp knives of various
kinds. Her hands were not visible in the rear view mirror, and with
trembling, groping fingers she located a paring knife. Maybe the
situation would not come to a desperate life or death struggle, but
if it did she determined to give it her best effort. With that decision
her mind became clear, and other options began to present them-
selves.
The man drove carefully, obeying all traffic laws. Soon he left
the residential section and entered the industrial area, bumping
over a railroad track and weaving through narrow alleys. The area
appeared deserted. Labor Day! There would be no one here to help.
Her dread intensified. The odor of rotting vegetables together with
the stench of general decay plunged her spirits into the lowest
depths of despair. Splintered wooden crates crunched under the
car's wheels. Obscene graffiti covered every wall. The distant sound
of traffic seemed to be in another world. Never before had she felt
so alone and helpless.
Presently the abductor stopped by a small building with an
overhead door that faced into a filthy alley strewn with empty wine
 212

bottles, old car parts, broken furniture, and greasy rags that once
had been clothes. There was even a dead cat by a rusty, battered
garbage can. Flies by the thousands swarmed around both. Like the
other structures, the small building was covered with sprayed weird
symbols, no doubt the work of gang members who, like the wild
predators they imitate, mark their territories.
"Okay, sweetheart," the man announced, "this is where I leave
you."
"Please, sir, does it have to be in this horrible place?"
"Horrible place? Lady, you don't know anything about horri-
ble places. This is the Garden of Eden compared to where I've
been."
Then he got out of the car and peeked into the building
through a barred window. Apparently satisfied, he picked the old
padlock, slid the bolt back and lifted the door. Instead of leaving
her and driving away as she expected, he drove the car inside and
closed the overhead door. Apparently this had been a storage
building. Now it was empty and about the size of a two-car garage.
Esther squeezed the handle of the paring knife.
The kidnapper seemed to be in no particular hurry. Returning
to the car, he eased his muscular body under the steering wheel,
leaving his door open. "So you're a cripple, eh? Tough. Too bad you
aren't blind also. That way I wouldn't have to kill you."
This statement sent tremors through her upper body but
came as no surprise. Keep him talking. Maybe he would relent and
let her live, although death might be preferable to being left to
starve in the "Garden of Eden".
"Do you have a family?" she asked.
"Sure. Seven wives and sixteen boys, all doctors. We live in a
castle in Beverly Hills. A dozen swimming pools and statues all over
the place. We have a butler, chauffeur, gardener, and two maids for
each room in the mansion. I'm actually a famous brain surgeon. I
kidnap, rape and murder crippled women just for the hell of it." His
grin was incredibly evil.
"Where were you reared?"
 213

"Reared? The only rearing I got as a boy was when Mom's boy-
friends would come in drunk and rear me with whatever they could
find to hit me with. Most of the time it wasn't in the rear." He
pointed to a jagged scar on his left cheek. "See this? It's a little sou-
venir from a poker when I was eight. Knocked me out for two
hours. Mom was either too drunk or too scared to help me."
"Do you believe in God? 'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord, 'I
will repay.'"
"Seems to me the Lord's threatened vengeance will come a lit-
tle late to accomplish any useful purpose. Sure as hell didn’t help
me when I was a helpless little kid and needing protection. Where
was God then when I needed Him?“
“People have freedom of choice. We can choose good, or we
can choose evil. You saw what the choice of evil causes. Why have
you not chosen good over evil?”
"Shut up!" Stepping out of the car, the felon mumbled ob-
scenities as he walked around to the passenger side, opened the
door and tossed cartons out of his way. Then he pulled the backrest
forward so that he could drag her over it.
So this is it! Evidently the alternate plan she had put into ef-
fect immediately after the man thwarted her lipstick strategy had
failed. It had been a plan made in desperation, a very long shot, but
it was the best she could do at the time.
Ready to lift the knife, she would aim for the eye like a heron
defending her nest from a fox. The thrust would have to be accu-
rate and quickly lethal.
When Vera came out of the house and saw that her car was
gone, wild panic seized her, knowing her sister couldn't drive. She
had not pulled up into the long driveway but had parked on the
street. A few seconds elapsed before she got herself together. After
running back into the customer's house without the formality of
ringing the bell, she dashed for the telephone on the shelf that di-
vided the kitchen and the dining room. Ken, her policeman brother,
arrived in less than ten minutes.
 214

Vera was waiting outside for him when he pulled up in the pa-
trol car with siren screaming and lights flashing. He had been in the
station when she called. He was alone now. "Get in," he instructed.
"We will cruise around, and if we spot the car, I'll call the desk
while we follow from a distance. If Esther has been kidnapped the
person might be armed, and dangerous. You can help me look; oth-
erwise, I wouldn't bring you along."
"Why would anyone want to steal an old car like that?"
"Who knows what thieves will do? Maybe it wasn't the car he
wanted." Vera began to cry and immediately he silently cursed him-
self for the thoughtless remark. "But let's not jump to conclusions.
Maybe one of her lady friends came by and they went for a cup of
tea."
"Oh sure. A friend just happened to walk by —"
"Okay, okay. It was a dumb thing to say. But we don't know
what happened, so let's not come all unglued. Just keep a sharp eye
out."
The kidnapper was just about to reach for Esther's arm when
a voice shouted from outside the barred window. "POLICE! Lie face
down and clasp your hands behind your head. You go for that gun,
and I'll blow you to bits."
The man looked over his shoulder and saw a shotgun pointing
at his spine. Evidently he forgot his vow never to be taken alive.
"On the floor. NOW! Any sudden move and it will be your
last."
Cops surrounded the buiding. One opened the door while an-
other kept the man covered. Quickly he was handcuffed and dis-
armed. One signaled for Ken and Vera, who were parked a safe dis-
tance away, to drive on up.
They rushed in to a smiling but tearful Esther. "You saw it,"
Esther said to her sister, almost disbelieving that her desperate plan
had actually worked. Some long shots do pay off. "You spotted my
string of beads!"
The sullen abductor looked at her and then at Ken. "What is
she talking about, pig? How did you find us?"
 215

Ken's grin was anything but sullen. "We followed a trail."

The brute's face reflected his puzzlement. "What?"
"Beads, punk. We followed a string of beads—soap beads."
The third book by Cecil Talley