The Case of the Fiddle Playing Fox (6 page)

When I heard the gun go off and heard the buckshot whistling overhead, my heart sank. After years of loyal service to the ranch, my career as Head of Ranch Security had come to a sudden end. Just like that: in the snap of a finger, in the blink of an eye. All gone.

And all over a little misunderstanding.

Chapter Nine: The Famous Frankie and Hankie Chicken House Band

W
e didn't slow down until we reached a deep ravine at the base of that big caprock north of headquarters. There, we took cover and caught our breath.

After a short rest, I turned to the fox. “Frankie, I'm not much inclined to jump to hasty conclusions, but I have a feeling that we might have worn out our welcome at the ranch.”

His brows lifted. “Uh yes, I think it would be safe to say that.”

“In which case it might follow from simple logic that I have just, so to speak, taken early retirement from my position as Head of Ranch Security.”

“Yes, that might follow, sure might.”

“In which case,” I began pacing back and forth in front of him, “in which case, as unfair and unjust as that might be, it also follows from simple logic that I am ‘unemployed,' you might say. Or, to put it another way, cast out of my job and home.”

“Uh-huh, yes.”

I stopped pacing. “Shall I go straight to the point, Frankie?”

“Well, son, since I don't know what the point is, I can't help you much there.”

“All right, okay, fine. I'll go straight to the point. I'm out of a job, Frankie. I'm in a bind. What are the chances that I could throw in with you and become a traveling musician? I have a heck of a fine voice—that is, people tell me that all the time—and I play a little banjo.”

He looked at me with narrowed eyes. “Can you read any music?”

“Uh . . . no.”

“Have you ever had lessons?”

“Well . . . not exactly lessons, but let me hasten to say . . .”

He raised his paw and smiled. “Son, it sounds to me like you'd fit right into my deal, and in a word, yes, I'd be glad to have you.”

For a moment there, I couldn't believe my oars. Ears.

“Really? You mean that? Holy smokes, what a piece of luck! I can see it now: our names up in lights, wimmen coming from all around to hear the Famous Frankie and Hankie Chicken House Band! It's a dream come true, Frankie. This could turn out to be one of the best days of . . .”

At that moment, Drover interrupted me and called me aside for a private conference. “Hank, who is that guy, and how come we ran away from the ranch, and what are we doing here?”

“Oh, yes. I almost forgot.” I briefed him on the events that had led up to our sudden departure from the ranch.

“So, as you can see, Drover, Frankie was merely entertaining our chickens, and I was merely re­turning the egg to its proper nesting place. Every­thing would have turned out fine if the stupid chickens had kept their traps shut.”

Drover glanced at me, then at Frankie. “But Hank, he's the fox! And he was
eating eggs
. That's what we were guarding against.”

“I've already explained that, Drover. The eggs were a gift from the chickens.”

“But
you
were eating eggs too. I know, because you've got egg all over your mouth.”

I swept a paw over my mouth and turned away. “That's, uh, your interpretation of what you think you see on my mouth, Drover, and I'd caution you about leaping to conclusions.”

“You were eating eggs and that fox was eating eggs, and oh my gosh, what am I doing here with two egg-robbers!”

He started crying. I waited until the tears had stopped dripping off his chin.

“Drover, there's a down-side and an up-side to all of life's experiences. The down-side here is that, yes, we have been ruined, our reputations are destroyed, we've lost our ranch, and we have now joined the criminal element of society.”

“Ohhhhhh!”

“On the up-side, we've got an opportunity to join Frankie's band and become traveling musicians.”

“Musicians! I can't even carry a tune!”

“Yes, I'm aware of that, Drover, but we mustn't let a mere lack of talent stand in our way. Perhaps we can start you out on washtub bass.”

“I don't want to play washtub bass. I don't want to be a traveling musician. I want to go home!”

“You're being hysterical.”

“I'm being honest!”

“All right, you're being hysterically honest, but that's nothing to get hysterical about.”

“Hank, I want to go home.”

I glared at the runt. “How could you possibly choose to go back to the ranch? What does it have that you couldn't find in greater abundance out here in the wild, as a free dog and a traveling musician?”

“Food. I'm starting to wonder where my next meal's going to come from.”

“Next meal! Drover, how can you . . . ?” That was an interesting point, come to think of it, where we would find our next meal now that we'd been dispossessed and turned out into the world. “Drover, I'm sure . . . what do you think of that, Frankie? I mean, just for the sake of argument. And by the way, Frankie, this is Drover. Drover, meet Frankie the Fox.”

Frankie smiled and tuned on his fiddle. “Boys, let me tell you. Old Frankie has been a-living off the land for a long time, and it ain't failed him yet.” He arched his brows. “There's several chicken houses in this valley. I know, because I've played in all of 'em at one time or another, and they do provide.”

“There's your answer, Drover. You've got nothing to worry about.”

He placed a paw over his eyes. “Except maybe getting shot for stealing eggs. And I don't even like raw eggs.”

“Drover, every line of work has its little . . .” I turned back to the fox. “Any chance we might, uh, get shot or something like that?”

“Oh sure. It goes with the territory. I've been a-dodgin' buckshot all my life, and I'll admit there's a couple of BB's in my hind end that I didn't get out of the way of quick enough. But son, bein' a musician ain't an easy life.”

“I see. Yes. Well, if there's any way we could, uh, cut down on the shooting aspect . . . some of us enjoy that brand of adventure more than others, shall we say, and while I've always toyed with the idea of becoming a traveling musician, I've never toyed with the idea of becoming shot.”

Drover let out a wail. “I don't want to get shot! I want to be a good dog and go home to my old gunnysack bed.”

“Son,” said the fox, “your belly will answer a lot of them philosophical questions for you, and it won't take long. Now, I'm going to move along down the creek. I know a nice little chicken house down there, and I ain't played it for a while. Y'all can do as you wish.”

“That's good enough for me,” I said. “Come on, Drover, here's your chance to quit a lousy ranch job and strike out on a new adventure.”

Frankie and I headed east in a trot, but Drover didn't move. I stopped and yelled back at him. “Well, what are you waiting for? Come on.”

“I just can't do it, Hank.”

“Fine. Go on back to the ranch, be a chicken-liver and see if anybody cares. While you're sleeping your life away under the gas tanks, I'll be out in the wide and wonderful world, making music, charming the wimmen, signing autographs, and feasting on the applause of the multitudes.”

He started slinking towards the ranch. “Yeah, I know I'll be missing out on all the adventure.”

“You certainly will, but you're old enough to make your own decisions now, and the fact that you've just made one of the dumbest decisions in history isn't important.”

“Thanks, Hank. Bye. I'll miss you.”

“Yes, and I'll . . . good-bye, Drover, you little dunce. I hope . . . good-bye!”

And with that, I turned my back on Drover and on the ranch I had loved and worked for so many years, and went plunging into a new career as an outlaw and musician.

It was late afternoon when Frankie and I reached the spot, just below Slim's cowboy shack, where Wolf Creek and Cottonwood Creek come together. We stopped there for a little rest.

This was all familiar country to me. I'd ex­plored it several times before, while on my way to pay visits to the One Love of My Life, the world's most gorgeous collie dog, the lovely Miss . . .

Hmmm.

I hadn't bothered to ask Frankie the Fox exactly where we were going, and I seemed to re­call that there was a chicken house on Beulah's . . . hmmmmmm.

I wandered over to where Frankie was sitting, under a high bluff where he was fiddling around with his fiddle.

“Say, Frankie, where'd you say that chicken house was?”

He pointed his bow to the east and gave me a wink. “Next ranch down the creek. All we have to do is wait for, uh, darkness to fall.”

Hmmmmmmmm.

You know, it had been quite a spell since I'd seen that woman. She'd been on my mind just about every day and night, but shucks, I'd been so tied down with investigations and murders and monster reports . . .

I moved a little closer to the fox. “Frankie, your fiddle music seems to work miracles on lady chickens. You ever notice that it's had, a special effect on . . . well, just to pull an example out of the hat . . . on
lady dogs
?”

He grinned. “It's a funny thing about this old fiddle. The ladies do, uh, kind of like it.” He winked.

“Yes, that's what I . . . that's very interesting.” I paced back and forth in front of him. “Frankie, there's this collie gal who stays on the very ranch we're going to, and I've been trying to strike sparks with her for a long time, don't you see, and . . . Frankie, I've got a small favor to ask.”

“Oh?”

“I want you to listen to this song.”

Chapter Ten: A Clever Plan to Sweep Miss Beulah Off Her Feet

M
y Heart Is Up for Rent

Now Frank, Miss Beulah, my amor,

That collie gal that I adore,

Has managed to escape my snares and traps.

I know it doesn't make much sense,

That she's resisted such a prince,

But she derned sure has, and that is just a fact.

I've gone to visit her at night,

Howled at the moon, got into fights,

And once I even tried rolling on a skunk.

That coyote trick didn't hardly work,

She's still in love with that same old jerk

Named Plato, and my hopes are pret' near sunk.

Oh, my heart is up for rent,

My love's been living in a tent.

I struck a spark and built a fire.

And got the heartburn of desire.

This game of love is pretty rough,

I've had this heartburn long enough.

But what the heck's a dog supposed to do?

You chase the girls, they run away,

But if you quit, they want to play.

Who wrote these dadgum rules, I'm asking you?

Miss Beulah's tough as nails, I fear,

The hardest case of my career,

I just don't understand what makes her tick.

Now, surely, Frank, there's ways and means

Of working me into her dreams.

It's time for me to find a magic trick.

Oh, my heart is up for rent,

My love's been living in a tent.

I struck a spark and built a fire.

And got the heartburn of desire.

Well Hank, it happens that you've found

A fiddlin' fox who's been around

And knows a thing or two 'bout charming gals.

See, all I do to turn it on

Is tell this fiddle to play a song,

And soon I have 'em standin' in my corrals.

So if that heartburn's got you down,

And if you're tired of being a clown,

Just give old Frankie the Fox your shopping list.

I'll play a jig, I'll play a song,

She'll think she was hit by an atom bomb,

I tell you, son, this fiddle has never missed.

Oh, my heart is up for rent,

My love's been living in a tent.

I struck a spark and built a fire.

And got the heartburn of desire.

I'll play a jig, I'll call a dance,

That collie gal won't have a chance.

That empty heart will soon be occupied, brother.

That empty heart will soon be occupied.

When we were done with the song, Frankie turned to me and smiled. “Say no more. It will be done.”

And you know what? In three minutes' time, me and that fox had worked out a plan that was guaranteed to sweep the lovely Miss Beulah off her feet, into my awaiting arms, and out of the clutches of Plato the bird dog.

Have I mentioned Plato before? Yes, of course I have. Plato had been a thorn in my paw for a long time, the problem being that, for reasons I had never understood, Beulah had some silly attachment to the mutt.

How any woman in her right mind could choose a bird dog over . . . but let's don't get started on that. The point is that for years and years I had searched for the magic formula, the secret love potion, the shortcut to her heart, only to be turned away and disappointed. Crushed, actually.

Devastated.

Destroyed.

Left sitting in the ruins of a love story.

Completely wrecked emotionally, hardly able to eat or drink or carry on my work.

Just, by George, wiped out.

On the other hand, I had never had a fiddle-playing fox working for me. If he could charm eggs out of a bunch of hens, there was a real good chance that . . . heh. It hardly seemed fair, but who wants to be fair anyway?

We didn't wait for darkness to fall, but set out right away for Beulah's place. Did I feel good? No sir, I felt absolutely splendifferous!

We followed the creek until we came to that section of dense willows that lies just below the house. Then we turned south and proceeded in a . . . well, a southerly direction, of course.

As planned, Frankie took cover behind a big native elm on the north edge of the yard, and I went on. I hadn't gone far when I came upon The Bird Dog.

He was practicing his pointing routines—creeping up on an old tennis shoe and then freezing, with his nose and tail sticking straight out at opposite ends of his body, and one foot poised in the air.

As you may know, bird dogs get very serious about such things as tennis shoes and old socks, and Plato was so absorbed in bird-dogging his tennis shoe that he didn't hear me creeping up behind him.

And I, being something of a prankster, couldn't resist giving him a little shock. At the same moment, I yelled, “Dog-eating tennis shoe!” And gave him a good swat on the behind.

“AAAAAA-EEEEEEE!”

Ho ho, his little pointing routine fell apart—hee, hee—as he flew straight up in the—ha, ha—air, I loved it. He had run a good 10 yards before he figgered out that he hadn't been attacked by a dog-eating tennis shoe. At that point, he stopped and came back, looking a little embarrassed.

“Well, by golly, you gave me quite a scare! Good old Hank, always good for a laugh. Hank, you won't believe this, but just this very morning, I said to Beulah, I said, ‘Honey-lamb, I wonder what's happened to our old friend Hank.'”

“Honey-lamb?”

“That's Beulah, that's what I call her, and she calls me Sugarbun. It probably sounds silly.”

“Yeah, probably does.”

“But Hank, we're just as happy as a couple of larks down here, couldn't be better, every little thing is just wonderful!”

“That's wonderful.”

“Isn't it though? That's what I tell Beulah, and oh, I'll bet you want to see her. Honey-lamb!” He called her and then gave me a wink. “She'll be SO surprised to see you here, and I'm SO happy for her! You two get together and talk about old times, Hank, and I'll go on and finish my workout, and then we'll all get together and talk and laugh and just have a wonderful time.”

“You bet.”

“Make yourself at home, Hank. What's mine is yours.”

“Yes, I know.”

He went on with his workout, never dreaming what schemes were bubbling in my mind.

I hid behind a little bush and watched her coming down from the front porch: the fine collie nose, the flaxen hair, the deep brown eyes, the ears that flapped in the breeze.

Mercy! Any dog would gladly give his life for such a woman. Fortunately, I had come up with a better plan.

“Plato? Plato, did you call?” She still hadn't seen me. About 10 feet away, she stopped and looked around.

I stepped from the bush, and in a voice as thick and sweet as sorghum molasses, I said, “Hello, Beulah.”

I saw the startled look come into her eyes as old memories came rushing to the surface. She was startled, puzzled, bewildered, and then torn between the true love she'd always felt for me and the false, counterfeit, shabby emotions she felt for Plato.

Yes, I could see it all passing across her face in the space of a few seconds. Finally she spoke. “Why . . . Hank! What are you doing here?”

I gave her a secret smile. “I think you know, Beulah.”

“No, I really don't.”

“Of course you do. I've come to save you.”

“Save . . . me? Save me from what?”

“You know, Beulah, and I know that you know, and you know that I know that you know, and there's no sense in pretending.”

“Oh Hank, I hope you're not still thinking about . . . us.”

I laughed and immediately switched to Plan B. “Oh no. No. No, no. I have my life and you have yours.”

She sighed and began to relax, heh heh. “That's right, Hank, and I'm glad.”

“You have your life, Beulah, and I have mine, and we've gone our separate ways.”

“But we can still be friends.”

“Exactly. Yes, the best of friends who can talk and laugh and share secret thoughts.”

“I've always enjoyed talking to you, Hank. You're a very interesting dog, and in many ways . . . well, we mustn't stir the waters.”

“No indeed, Beulah. It wouldn't be fair to either of us because, after all, we have our own lives and that's the way it ought to be. Why, if one of us didn't have a life . . . there would be only one of us left, I guess you'd say, and that would be no fun at all.”

“Oh Hank,” she laughed, and hey, I could see that old sparkle in her eyes, “you have such a funny way of saying things.”

“Yes indeed, my sweet darling, uh, friend . . . friend of many years and shared experiences, and why don't we take a little walk down by that big native elm tree? It's a beautiful tree, don't you think?”

I began easing her towards the tree.

“Well, yes, I suppose it is.”

“Gorgeous tree. I've always admired that tree. You know, Beulah, the problem with dogs today is that they don't take the time to appreciate the beauty of trees.”

She laughed again. “Is that the problem with dogs today? I had wondered.”

“Yes indeed, just move along, my dear, that's better, just a few more steps and, bingo, here we are.”

We had reached the base of the tree, on the other side of which lurked my secret musical weapon.

“Well,” she said, taking a deep breath of fragrant air, “it is a very nice tree. What shall we talk about?”

“Oh, I don't know, why don't we talk about fiddle music?”

“Fiddle music?”

“Sure, why not? For years we've never talked about fiddle music. Tell me, my, uh, friend, my good friend, what do you think of fiddle music?”

For a moment she ducked her head. Then her big dewy eyes came up and she smiled. “I suppose you already know that I just LOVE fiddle music, but I'm sorry to say that I never get to hear enough of it.”

Ho boy, was this deal working? Old Hank had set the trap of love, and now he was fixing to release the spring.