Chapter Eleven: This Chapter Will Give You the Shivers, No Kidding
The old man took cover behind Junior.
“Oh P-p-pa, d-d-don’t act s-s-so s-s-silly. H-he’s only a l-l-l-little c-coon.”
“A cocoon? Son, butterflies come from cocoons, and that is no butterfly. He ain’t near big enough and . . . why Junior, that is a raccoon, a cute little old raccoon.”
“I t-t-told y-you so.”
“And we haven’t eat a good wholesome meal in three days, Junior, and . . .” Wallace came waddling out into the open. He wore a crazy grin and was rubbing his wings together. He spoke to me. “Say there, neighbor, I don’t reckon y’all might consider a trade for that little old raccoon, would you? We’d have to take him on credit, of course.”
“Nope. I’m afraid you guys’ll have to stick with dead skunks and smashed rabbits on the road.”
“Well, don’t you think we can’t, Mister Smarty Pants! We’ve been doing just fine without friends like you, and since you’re gonna be so stingy, maybe y’all better just leave our house, right now this very minute. Junior, tell ’em to git out of our house.”
Junior shook his head. “P-p-pa, p-please h-h-hush.”
Wallace gave him an angry glare. “Junior, did you just tell me to hush?”
“Y-y-yeah.”
“All right, fine, I’ll hush but you’ll be sorry.”
And with that, old Wallace crossed his wings over his chest, turned his back on us, and pouted.
Eddy the Rac hurried down the stairs, casting puzzled glances back at Wallace. He went straight to Little Alfred and crawled into his arms. As he passed me, I heard him say, “Weird guy. Take me home. Lock me up. No more roaming for me.”
Well, we had just about completed our mission and it was time to head back to the house. Eddy crawled up on the back of Alfred’s neck and I called to Mister Hide-Under-the-Sack.
Alfred struggled with the door until he got it open. We were greeted by the cold north wind and a dusting of snow.
“Well, Junior, it was fun. And of course it’s always a pleasure to spend a few hours with your old man.”
His face burst into a huge grin. “Huh, huh, huh!”
Wallace squawked some kind of tacky reply but I didn’t stick around to hear it. I had better things to do than stand around and listen to the complaints of a gripy old buzzard. I’d heard enough already to last me several months.
What a grouch.
I caught up with the other guys and took my position at the front of the line. We needed me out front in the Scout Position, don’t you see, because it was snowing pretty hard and our trail back to the house had been covered up.
In that kind of situation, we needed our best tracker and trailblazer out front, and that was . . . well, ME, you might say.
We spread out in a line and marched through the snow: me out front, Little Alfred and Eddy in the middle, and little Mister Scaredy Cat bringing up the rear.
We were the conquering explorers. We had braved the storm, unhaunted the haunted house, and rescued Eddy from a couple of hunger-crazed buzzards, and around here, we call that a pretty good day of ranch work.
Yes sir, we had become famous heroes, and when famous heroes return home from an important mission, they don’t just walk or slouch along. They march, and we’re talking about picking up their feet and marching in step.
Hencely, I passed along the order for the entire column to stay in line, pick up their feet, and march in step. Yes, we looked pretty snappy, marching through the snow, and at that point I figgered we needed to sing “The Famous Heroes Battle-Marching Song.”
Do you know it? Maybe not, if you’ve never been a Famous Hero, but here’s how it went.
The Famous Heroes Battle-Marching Song
We are Famous Heroes, y’all.
(We are Famous Heroes, y’all.)
We are proud and we stand tall.
(We are proud and we stand tall.)
Haunted houses scare us not.
(Haunted houses scare us not.)
Hush your mouth and thanks a lot.
(Hush your mouth and thanks a lot.)
Sound off (Famous).
Sound off (Heroes).
Famous Heroes, one two,
One two . . . three four!
Left, left, left right left.
Left, left, left right left.
(HANK)
We left the ranch in the snow,
You’re right!
The girls all cried when we left,
You’re right!
We hiked all over the universe and we’re just out of sight,
You’re right!
Sound off (Famous).
Sound off (Heroes).
Famous Heroes, one two,
One two . . . three four!
(LITTLE ALFRED)
My mommy’s my favowit gal,
You’re right!
I know she’s going to be pwoud,
You’re right!
She’ll be my fwiend through thick and thin, we always will be tight,
You’re right!
Sound off (Famous).
Sound off (Heroes).
Famous Heroes, one two,
One two . . . three four!
(DROVER)
This hero’s life is new,
You’re right!
It’s something I rarely do,
You’re right!
And my best friend’s a gunnysack, it keeps me warm at night,
You’re right!
Sound off (Famous).
Sound off (Heroes).
Famous Heroes, one two,
One two . . . three four!
(EDDY)
I hardly know what to say,
You’re right!
I usually sleep in the day,
You’re right.
I’m just a slug ’til midnight comes and then I go wild at night,
You’re right!
Sound off (Famous).
Sound off (Heroes).
Famous Heroes, one two,
One two . . . three four!
Well, as you can see, it was one of the best marching songs we’d ever come up with on the ranch, just right for a bunch of Famous Heroes going home from a huge success on the field of battle.
Yes, if Beulah had been there, no doubt she would have fallen madly in love with me and forgotten all about her stupid, stick-tailed, spotted, dumb-bunny bird dog friend—Plato. What she saw in that guy, I just didn’t know, but . . . oh well.
Too bad she wasn’t there to see me in my moment of greatest . . .
“Hank, what’s that over there?”
It was Drover. He tore me away from delicious thoughts of my One and Only True Love and brought me back to the present moment, marching through the snow with my comrades.
“What?”
“I thought I saw something up ahead.”
I halted the column and went back to the rear. “You thought you saw something up ahead? Well, you probably did, Drover, because there are many things up ahead, such as trees, rocks, shrubs, and snowflakes.”
“No, it was something big, with four legs.”
“I’m sorry, Drover, but that’s impossible. You see, I am in the Scout Position. I am in that position because of my superior . . . Drover, something’s happened to your eyes. All at once they look like two fried eggs.”
His mouth moved but no words came out. And just then I heard Little Alfred say, “Uh-oh, twouble up ahead.”
I whirled around and . . .
HUH?
A bull? The neighbors’ Jersey bull?
Okay, let’s pause here to . . . uh . . . pull a few loose threads together, as they say. See, I had been very busy directing the guys . . . the members of the Famous Heroes Symphonic Chorus, don’t you see, and perhaps my attention had also drifted into thoughts of . . . well, Miss Beulah, and . . .
I had more or less forgotten that we were marching across the Parnells’ Bull Pasture, and what would you expect to find in a bull pasture but a . . . well, a bull?
No big deal.
Okay, maybe it was a bigger deal than you might have supposed, because it was a big bull.
Real big bull.
Monster bull, and have we discussed Jersey bulls? They are famous for their nasty disposition. They love to fight and attack helpless creatures such as your cowdogs, your little boys, and your raccoons.
Yipes.
What lousy luck. We’d almost made it to the fence between the Parnells’ and our home pasture. I mean, we could see it up ahead, not more than twenty yards away. The only trouble was that the bull stood between us and the fence.
And, fellers, he appeared to be loading up for an attack. He bellered and shook his horns, lowered his head, and began throwing snow up over his shoulder.
Any one of those symptoms would have been serious. All of them together spelled T-R-O-U-B-L-E.
Drover began to squeak. “Oh my gosh, Hank, what are we going to do?”
“We’re going to . . . I don’t know what we’re going to do, Drover, if you must know the truth.”
“Oh my gosh, this leg’s killing me! I knew I should have stayed home!”
“Well, go stick your head under a sack.”
“I don’t have a sack!”
“Go buy one.”
“I’m broke!”
“Then maybe you could dry up and let me think.”
Just then, as if things weren’t bad enough, we heard the voice of an angry ranch wife. All eyes shifted to the north, and yes, standing on the other side of the fence with both hands parked on her waist, was . . . Sally May.
Hmmm. This presented us with a thorny problem. Which was the more dangerous: an angry Sally May or an angry bull?
It was just about a toss-up, seemed to me.