The Case of the Fiddle Playing Fox (7 page)

Chapter Eleven: The Trap of Love Backfires

B
eulah, my prairie winecup, I can't say that I knew that you loved fiddle music, but I did sort of suspect it. Now, if you will close your eyes, I will produce from the ectoplasmic vapors of the atmosphere some of the most gorgeous fiddle music you have ever heard.”

She twisted her head and gave me a puzzled look. “Are you joking? How can you . . . ?”

“Never mind the questions, my little sunflower. Close your eyes, open your ears, and hang on to your heart. Ready? Here we go!”

Good old Frankie the Fox! He came in right on cue and played a real pretty little number. I watched my prey . . . uh, my darling as she swayed back and forth with the pure sweet sounds of the fiddle. I could see that she was becoming vulnerable and more vulnerable all the time.

“Beulah, may I have the honor of this dance?”

“Oh, I shouldn't . . . but . . . maybe just one, for old times' sake.”

I really didn't care whose sake the dance was for. I took her in my paws and we became as one with each other and with the music.

All at once her eyes popped open, and she gasped, “Oh Hank, that is the most divine fiddle music I ever heard!”

“Is it now? How interesting, yes, but keep your eyes closed, my buttercup.”

“Hank, what is the name of that song?”

The music stopped. “Uh, ‘Just Friends,'” said the fox.

“Quiet, Frankie, I'll handle this. The tune is called ‘Just Friends,' my darling, which doesn't really describe . . .”

Her eyes popped open again. “Hank, I simply MUST find out where it's coming from!”

“Oh no, I don't think . . .”

“WHO IS THAT FIDDLE PLAYER?”

“Oh, it's nobody you'd . . .”

The music stopped and . . . I couldn't believe this part . . . that sneaking no-good egg-stealing fox poked his smiling face around the trunk of the tree and he said . . .

Here's what the sneaking, scheming, back-stabbing fox said. “Why, hello there, Miss Beulah! I was just a-sittin' here under this tree, a-playin' this old fiddle of mine, and I thought I heard the voice of an angel.”

She gasped and held a paw to her heart. “Are YOU the fiddle player?”

“Uh, yes ma'am,” he bowed to her, the wretch, “I have that little distinction. My name is Frankie the Fox, and I am at your service at any hour of the day or night.”

I stepped in between them. “Excuse me, Beulah, if I might intrude here to make a . . .”

She slipped past me. “Oh sir, your music is just divine!”

“Well, we thank you, ma'am. We try to do our best with the little gifts we have.”

“Oh sir, you have a wonderful gift!”

Again, I tried to push between them. “Beulah, I think this would be a good time for me to point out . . . oof!” I never dreamed that sweet Beulah would stoop to throwing elbows, but she did.

“Ma'am,” said the fox, “I'd be so proud if you'd just touch my fiddle. I do believe it would make all my music, uh, that much sweeter.”

“Why, I would just be . . . if you really thought . . . where should I touch it?”

The villain presented his fiddle. “Just place your fine, delicate, perfectly-made little paw right here.”

She closed her eyes and placed her right paw on the fiddle.” Oh, this is so exciting! And Hank, it was all your idea.”

“Well,” I scowled at the fox, “up to a point it was. However . . .”

She swooped over to me and gave me a peck on the cheek. “And there's your reward! Now, if you'll excuse me, I just must run and tell Plato! He'll be so excited!”

And with that, she went dashing off to find her stick-tailed friend who was off somewhere pointing tennis shoes.

“Beulah, wait! What about us? I still have important things to tell you. Beulah!”

She didn't hear me. I turned my attention to the fox and began considering three or four ways of . . .

“Well, you sure fixed me up, Foxie.”

“Son, that is one fine lady.”

“Yes, I'm aware of that, and she's much too fine a lady to be drooling over a common henhouse musician like you.”

“She may be the best-looking collie gal I ever laid eyes on. You're a very, very lucky dog.”

“I'm a lucky dog? She throws herself on you and your stupid fiddle, and then runs off to tell her bird dog boyfriend about it,
and I'M a lucky dog
? You've just ruined my life, is how lucky I am.”

He gave me a puzzled look. “Son, you told me to play my fiddle, and I played my fiddle. You told me to charm that gal, and I charmed that gal.”

“Yes, but I never told you to come out and take credit for it, just as though you'd actually done something. You idiot, she fell in love with your music, not me!”

He looked at his fiddle and shrugged. “You know, Hank, this fiddle music is kinda hard to predict. Sometimes it falls on deaf ears and sometimes it don't. A guy just has to try it out and see. If I was to try it again, I'd put a little less oomph on my bow.”

“Well, you don't need to worry about that. There won't be another time. You're fired, you're through. You'll never work for me again, I'll see to that. Unless, of course, I want another broken heart, and in that case you'll be the first one on my list.”

“Oh, uh shucks.”

So, thanks a lot, Frankie. In less than 12 hours' time, you've helped me lose my ranch, my job, my reputation, and now My One and Only True Love. If there's ever anything I can do for you, please don't hesitate to drop dead. And with that, I'll say good-bye. Forever.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, and don't try to talk me out of it.”

“Son, I wouldn't think of it.”

“No, of course not, because you're such a selfish, heartless cad. You know very well that I have no place to go and that I'm a dog without a country, but do you care about that?”

“Well now, of course I care about that.”

“No you don't. You're just saying that because you're a sneaking, scheming untrustworthy fox who can't be trusted. If you really cared, you'd . . . I don't know what you'd do, but you'd do something. But of course you won't because you don't care about anyone but yourself.”

Frankie sighed and turned a pair of lazy eyes in my direction. “Son, would it help your disposition at all if we went to the henhouse and got ourselves a nice big supper?”

I began pacing, as I often do when difficult decisions are pressing down upon me. I noticed that my stomach was growling.

“Frankie, we need to get one thing straight right here and now, and I mean bring it right out in the open.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I'm no pushover.”

“No, I figgered you weren't.”

“For years they've tried to get me to sell out and compromise my principles, and every time the answer has been, ‘No dice.'”

“I see.”

“There are some things a dog just can't do without destroying his pride.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So I'll accept your offer, but I'm doing it as a personal favor to you.”

“Uh, thank you so much.”

I dabbed at the moisture in the corners of my eyes. “Sometimes, Frankie, a guy just doesn't know how he can stand to live another day.”

He patted me on the shoulder. “I know, son, but they tell me that the best cure for a broken heart is a dozen busted eggs.”

“And you're suggesting that mere food could heal this terrible wound?”

“In a word, uh, yes.”

My stomach growled again. “In that case, let's adjourn to the chicken house and let Miss Beulah feather her own nest.”

And off we went to the chicken house, never suspecting that . . . well, you'll see.

Chapter Twelve: Heartbroken and Sprayed, but a Hero to the End

O
n our way to the chicken house, we talked.

“Frankie, I was too good for her anyway.”

“Um hmm.”

“Any woman who'd chase after a bird dog is for the birds.”

“I'm sure that's right.”

“And, to be quite frank, Frankie, I don't even . . .” Suddenly I fell to the ground with a terrible pain in my chest. “Holy smokes, I think my heart's cut half in two. I love her, Frankie, I can't get her off my mind, rush me to the chicken house!”

“Get up, son, I can't carry you.”

I struggled to my feet. Holding a front paw over my heart, I limped onward, until at last we reached the chicken house. The sun had gone down. Darkness had fallen over the valley and, best of all, the chickens had gone to roost.

Frankie put his ear to the door and listened. When he straightened up, I saw that he was wearing that same old sly smile I had seen the night before.

“All's well. I'll go first and play. And then,” he winked, “uh, let the feast begin.”

“I'll be right behind you.”

He cranked up his fiddle and slipped inside, and I followed a step or two behind. At that point, I began to notice that clouds had covered the full moon and that it was rather dark. Very dark. Pitch black.

In other words, this job would have to be done strictly on sound and feel. I could hear the hens' feet swishing across the floor as they got out of their nests and began to dance, and now and then a contented clucking sound came to my ears.

So far so good. I came to the first nest and gobbled two nice, fresh, juicy eggs. Already the pain in my heart had begun to slip away. Yes, this was an excellent cure.

I moved along and came to the next . . . this hen hadn't left her nest. Perhaps she was old, or Baptist and didn't believe in dancing. I would have to . . .

Funny, I'd thought that all hens had feathers, not hair. I fumbled around in the darkness with my paws and . . .
this hen had hair
. That was a new one on . . .

And a TAIL? A long tail with the hairs sticking straight out? Now, that beat it all. I had never heard of a chicken with hair and a tail.

And four legs? Hmmm. Very strange.

And, you know, the chicken house sure had a peculiar odor about it, almost like the smell of a . . . HUH?

WHOOOOOOSH! SPLAT! SSSSSSSSSS!

I stumbled through the darkness, gasping for breath and stepping on squawking hens. I tumbled out the door, and a moment later, Frankie tumbled out on top of me.

We both gagged and coughed and caught our respective breaths, but then we had to make fast tracks for the creek bottom, since the chickens were raising a terrible stink. So to speak. Noise, actually.

We ran for our lives and managed to reach the willows without being shot, collapsed on the ground and panted for air. The air, by the way, smelled awful.

Frankie was the first to speak. “Son, I told you once before that you have a heavy touch with the chickens. What was it that went off in there?”

“Frankie, the best I can figger is that they've got egg-laying skunks on this ranch.”

“Uh, no. The skunk might have been
stealin
' eggs, but he wasn't a-layin' eggs.”

“Whatever. But I'm almost sure that there was a skunk in the nest.”

“Yes, I think you could say that. And he did go off and you did take a direct hit.”

“Yes, of course. It's all coming together now: the hair, the tail, the four feet, the strange odor, and then the whoosh sound. That was a skunk in there, Frankie, and I'll bet he was robbing eggs.”

Frankie wrinkled up his nose and began backing away. “Son, this friendship has just been put to the test, and it has, uh, flunked. When you get to smellin' better, I hope you'll look me up. Nothing personal, but good night, good-bye, and good luck.”

“Wait! Frankie? Why you, you . . . fair-weather friend! You fickle fiddle-playing fox! Go ahead and leave a friend just because he stinks, see if I care! I didn't like your smell either, so there!”

No answer. He was gone.

Sure was quiet out there. And kind of lonely. Very lonely. Holy smokes, I'd lost everything—my job, my girl, my friends, my gunnysack. I had no one to tell my troubles to, and nowhere to go.

I began walking up the creek, with my head and tail sunk so low that they almost met in the middle. I was hauling around all the cares of the world, fellers, and wondering if I could stand to drag myself through another night. But then . . .

I heard a sound, a voice. I lifted my head and perked my ears, and noticed that I had been walking for an hour or more and had reached a point just down the creek from Slim's place.

I stopped and listened. There it was again. Yes, it was a voice, a faint voice, calling someone.

“Here boy! Come on home!”

Someone was out in the night, calling his dog. That only made me feel worse, knowing that there were people in the world who cared enough about their dogs to . . .

There it was again, only this time . . .

“Hank, here boy! Here, Hank!”

Hank? Could there be TWO dogs named Hank on this creek? Surely . . . no! Someone was out in the night, calling for ME!

I went streaking towards the sound of the voice, and somehow the thought never occurred to me that the unknown party in the equation might be calling me for a date with THE FIRING SQUAD.

I'm a trusting soul, don't you know, and in the excitement of hearing my own name, I had forgotten that I had been seen the night before, running away from Sally May's chicken house with a two-faced, nest-robbing, fiddle-playing fox.

And so, like an innocent pup who has no knowledge of life's twisted path, I ran straight towards the two flashlight beams that probed the darkness along the creek.

And I was even foolish enough to bark and give them my exact position.

I heard the click-click of the pump shotgun, as one of the strangers threw a loaded shell into the chamber. Both flashlight beams swung around and punched me in the eyes. I came to a sudden stop.

It was at that moment that the awful truth hit me.

I had walked right into a trap, fellers.
An am­bush. A cruel conspiracy. They had me just where they wanted me, and it was all over but the shooting.

“Well,” I said to myself, “Hold your head up, old son, and take it like a cowdog.” I closed my eyes, held my head up, and waited for the ineffable . . . inedible . . . inevitable.

“Hey Loper, it's him! It's old Hank!”

“By gollies, it is! I thought he was a coyote at first.”

Heavy footsteps came my way through the tall grass. I waited for the flash of light and the boom and the ineffable buckshot. But they didn't come.

Suddenly Slim and Loper were there in front of me, and . . . I cracked my eyes and saw smiles? I didn't want to be a sucker, but just in case those smiles were meant for me, I gave my tail a tentative wag.

“Hank, you old rascal, we've been looking all over this valley for you! Where have you been?”

I, uh, ran a paw across my mouth, just in case there might have been . . . just to spruce myself up for the, uh, company, because it's never a good idea to meet the public with a, uh, dirty face.

“We were scared that after you chased that fox off the ranch yesterday, he might have whupped up on you. Good dog, Hank, and welcome home!”

I could hardly believe my ears. This was too good to be true, and yet . . .

Loper set his shotgun on the ground and crouched down. It appeared that he wanted to give me a hug, so I coiled my legs under me and flew into his awaiting arms. And also licked him on the face.

“Yeah, good dog, Hank. My wife is mighty proud of . . . shoo! My gosh, Hank, you smell worse than fifteen dead elephants! What in the world did you get into this time?”

He coughed and gagged and pushed me away.

Slim shifted his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Smells a little like a skunk, don't it?”

“A
little
? Slim, this dog is a danger to the public health! Hank, you old fool, just once I wish you'd . . . oh, well, at least he's back home. Nothing ain't perfect, I guess.”

“Not on this ranch, it ain't,” said Slim.

Well, it turned out to be another triumphant homecoming for you-know-who, which was a bit more than I had dared to hope for. And here's how that happened.

Sure 'nuff, Loper had seen me and Frankie and Drover running away from the chicken house, and sure 'nuff, he had fired his shotgun in our direction.

But it had been our good fortune that Frankie the Fox had been
in the lead
, which meant that we dogs had appeared to be
chasing him off the ranch
.

Which hadn't been entirely an accident come to think of it. You see, I had suspected all along that . . .

Well, shucks, look at the record. I had caught that sneaking, thieving Frankie the Fox in the act of robbing eggs and had run him off the ranch forever. I had gotten the hero's welcome I so richly de­served, and things had turned out right in the end.

And fellers, there's no better time to end a story than when things have turned out right, and there's no better place to end a story than at the end. And this is just about the end.

One last word and then I'll quit. You remember the parts of this story where I was supposedly robbing nests and eating raw eggs with that sneaking fox? Those passages were based on gossip and inconclusive reports.

In other words, I was misquoted. I would ap­preciate it if you would go back through this book and scratch out those passages because, well, people might get the wrong idea.

Heads of Ranch Security do not, I repeat, DO NOT rob nests or eat raw eggs. Never. Ever.

Honest.

Cross my heart.

No kidding.

Thanks. See you around. And don't forget to cross out the naughty parts.