The Case of the Fiddle Playing Fox (5 page)

Chapter Eight: Frankie the Fox

Y
es sir, that was one startled fox!

Oh, he'd thought he was so clever, so slick, so smooth, thought he'd hipnopottomized me along with a bunch of silly chickens, thought he'd pulled his deal off without a hitch, and now that the sun was coming up, he figgered he'd just slip away and nobody would be any the wiser.

But what he hadn't counted on was running into the Head of Ranch Security, and when you don't count on that, fellers, you might as well not bother to count.

I had caught him red-handed and red-faced and . . . well, he was basically red, see, but nevertheless I had caught him climbing out of the chicken house, which was just about enough evidence to get a guy shot by an angry cowboy.

Well, when I gave him the “Freeze, turkey, you're under arrest!” treatment, his head shot up and he raised his front paws, one of which held the fiddle and the other of which held the bow. He stood motionless while I stepped over and frixed him. Fricksed him. Frisked him.

“Okay, now turn around real slow and keep those paws up there where I can see 'em.” He turned around, and I could see that I had struck terror in his heart—which was no accident. “All right, let's start with your name.”

“Huhhie huh huh,” he said.

“Say that again. I missed part of it.” He said it again, and once again I heard only sounds which meant nothing. I was about to lose patience and get tough with him when he pointed the fiddle bow at his mouth and . . . oh, yes, he had . . .

“I see you have an egg in your mouth, Foxie, which not only establishes your guilt beyond a doubt but also makes it impossible for you to give me your name. Lay the egg down and state your name. And don't try any funny stuff.”

He set the egg down on the ground between us and gave me a friendly smile. “They call me Frankie the Fox, and could you tell me where I might find the head guard dog of this fine ranch?”

“Frankie the Fox, huh? Well, you've outfoxed yourself this time because you happen to be talking with none other than Hank the Cowdog, Head of Ranch Security.”

“Oh good! Hank, I looked and looked for you when I came by here earlier in the evening, wanted to check in and make sure everything was copesetic, 'cause if there's anything Frankie the Fox does not want to do, it's get off on the wrong foot with the guy in charge.”

He gave me a wink and a grin.

“Yeah, well, you've found the guy in charge, all right.”

“I can see that! You just look like somebody who's got things under control.”

“A lot of people say that, so I guess there must be some truth to it. I didn't know it was so obvious.”

“Uh Hank, it is obvious! It is, it really is. You have that certain special look about you.” He stepped back and squinted one eye and gave me a thorough looking-over. “Oh yes, very definitely. Out of all the dogs in Ochiltree County, I would have picked YOU out as the Head of Ranch Security.”

“I'll be derned, that's pretty impressive, and I'm glad to know . . . On the other hand, we mustn't forget that I've just caught you in the act of slipping out of the chicken house.”

“Oh that! Don't think a thing about that, son. I was glad to do it. If this fiddle of mine can make them old gals laugh and dance—why, Hank, life has no greater reward than that!”

“Yes, well I . . .”

“And I'll tell you this.” He tapped me on the shoulder with his bow. “I'm just a poor old fox, I've got nothing to show for my years on this earth but a broke-down fiddle and a five-hair bow, but son, I have had the high honor of bringing pleasure and joy into the lives of others.”

I cleared my throat. “Yes. That's wonderful.”

“It is, believe me.”

“But there's still this little matter of the eggs.”

“Hank, what I'm a-fixing to say comes from the bottom of my heart, and I want you to listen.” He looked me square in the eyes. “Them eggs wouldn't mean any more to me if they were made of solid gold. Please, please don't be embarrassed.”

“Well, actually I . . .”

“It was the best you could do. It was the best the chickens could do. And that's good enough for Frankie the Fox. If the day ever comes when Frankie won't play his fiddle for a few eggs, son, may I be struck dead by uh—lightning!”

Somehow this wasn't . . . “The point is, I caught you in the act of stealing eggs, and on this outfit, stealing eggs is a pretty serious crime.”

He narrowed his eyes and the smile fell away from his mouth. “Stealing eggs? You think I was
a-stealing eggs
?”

“That's correct.”

He came over and put a paw around my shoulder. “Hank. Hank, son! Let me explain something to you. You are a smart dog, but you have been on this ranch too long. It has done something to your mind. You are a-getting too serious about things.

“Now look here. If I had been a common thief, do you think them hens would have invited me in? And if I had been a-stealin' their eggs, don't you reckon they would have made some noise about it? Now, search your heart, Hank, and tell the truth.”

“Yes, well I did . . . wonder about that . . . a little.”

“Of course you did! Your mind said I was a-stealing eggs, but your heart said, ‘No. He ain't a-stealing eggs. He's a-making our hens happy, and tomorrow they'll lay more eggs than ever.'”

He stepped back and gave me kind of a sad smile. “Here I am, Hank, I'm just a poor old fox who tries to get by and make the world a little brighter. If you think the world would be a better place if I was called a common thief and punished for it, then go ahead and do it. I ain't a-going to run. And if your heart tells you that I should be shot, I'll even leave you my fiddle.”

Well, that made me feel like a louse, him offering to . . . it would have been much easier for me to turn him in if he'd acted like a thief and run away. But he didn't.

Hey, this was a tough decision. My mind said he was a-stealing eggs, but my heart said, “No. He wasn't a-stealin eggs. He was a-making our hens happy, and tomorrow they'll lay more eggs than ever.”

And he
was
an extra fine fiddle player, which was no small bananas.

By this time the lights had come on down at the house. It would be easy to sound the alarm and bring Loper to the scene with his gun.

I paced back and forth, wrestling with this decision, trying to sort out what was right and what was wrong. After several long heart-pounding minutes, I stopped pacing.

“Okay, I've reached a decision.”

“Good. And Hank, I want you to know that whichever way it goes, we're still friends.”

“I've decided, after much soul-searching and deliberizing, to let it slide—this time.”

Frankie the Fox grinned and gave me a little bow. “You're a very wise dog. I'd take my hat off to you, Hank, but you know, I'm just a poor old fox and I never could afford . . .”

“Never mind the sad story. I'll let it slide this time, but you've got to promise to stay away from my chicken house. Whether it's stealing or not, you're making me look bad.”

A look of pain came over his face. “Hank, son! I would never, ever do anything that made you look bad. Believe me.”

“Then you'll stay away from my outfit. Oh, and one more thing. I'm going to put this last egg back where it belongs. It just doesn't look right for you to be walking away with an egg.”

“Hank, if that's what your old heart tells you to do, then that's what you should do.”

I gave him a sour look. “I'd feel better about this whole deal if you'd quit talking about my heart. Somehow that makes me uneasy.”

I scooped the egg up in my powerful jaws and slipped through the door. I was in the process of looking for a nest in which to deposit the egg when . . .

I never had much respect for the intelligence of a chicken. Some animals, such as cats, are merely dumb. Chickens are dumb dumb. Do you think those chickens were glad to see their Head of Ranch Security? Do you suppose they showed me any gratitude or gave me any praise for staying up all night to protect their stupid . . .?

No. Here's what they did. I nuzzled a sleeping hen with my nose, see, with the idea of dropping the egg into her nest. Her eyes popped open, her beak popped open, and she began shrieking and flapping her wings.

“IT'S A FOX, IT'S A FOX!!” she screamed. Well, that woke up the whole house, and within seconds, every bird in the place was screaming, “It's a fox, it's a fox!”

Dumb birds.

Furthermore, she smacked me across the nose with one of her stupid flapping wings and . . . all at once I felt a pleasant warm sensation spreading across the interior portion of my mouth and . . . I'd never supposed that I would go for the taste of . . . I mean, eating raw eggs was sort of a violation of the law in our part of the . . .

Hmmmmm. Not bad. In fact, all at once I could kind of understand how a guy might . . . I spit out the shells and peered into the nest and saw . . . hmmmmmmmmmm.

It seemed to me that I was entitled to
something
for all my hard work and sacrifice. I mean, I'd been up all night guarding the chicken house, right? And a little old measly egg was the only payment they could come up with.

I, uh, accepted their offer, so to speak. It would have been tacky to turn it down . . . don't you see.

But in the meantime, that chicken house had turned into a bee hive, with birds flying around in all directions, feathers floating through the air, chickens bouncing off the walls, squawking, flapping, and it was then that I heard the back door slam down at the . . .

HUH?

I was, well, sort of in the chicken house. With several eggs' worth of evidence on my face. And the chickens were making a terrible racket. And this appeared to be one of those situations that could lead to a misunderstanding.

Which is basically why I decided to get the heck out of there.

I shot through the door and scrambled outside. There was Frankie, shaking his head and scowling. “Son, you have a heavy touch with the chickens. I don't know what your plans are right now, but old Frankie is a-fixin' to shuffle along.”

“Yes, and I think I'll walk you to the county road or thereabouts.”

We were streaking away from, the chicken house, and just as we got underway, we met Drover coming out of the machine shed.

“Hank, I heard . . . a fox . . . egg on your face . . . what . . . oh, my gosh, Hank, what's going on here?”

“Never mind, Drover. Either run for your life or prepare to answer some tough questions when Loper gets here!”

“Oh my gosh! I think I'll run, if this old leg . . .”

With Frankie in the lead, we swooped around the west side of the machine shed and took aim for the cap rocks to the north. I was hoping with all my heart and mind and soul that Loper wouldn't see us running away, since that might have raised troublesome questions about our participation, so to speak, in the chicken house incident.