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Chapter Twelve: Don’t Worry, We Escaped but Just Barely

In the darkness, we listened to the song. I mean, we didn’t have a whole lot of choice.

It started out with just the old man singing, then a whole bunch of voices came in, until it was a whole entire chorus of voices singing. Here’s how it went:

Followers of the Lamb

Oh brethern ain’t you happy?

Ye Followers of the Lamb.

Oh sisters ain’t you happy?

Ye Followers of the Lamb.

Oh sing on, dance on, Followers of Emanuel!

Oh sing on, dance on, Followers of the Lamb!

Oh sing on, dance on,

Sing on, dance on!

I’m glad I am a Christian,

I’m glad I am a Christian

I’m glad I am a Christian,

Ye Followers of the Lamb!

Sing, dance!

Oh sing on, dance on,

Ye Followers of Emanuel,

Oh sing on, dance on . . .

Ye Followers of the Lamb!

When the song was done, the place fell into an eerie silence. Then Drover said, “Hank, do you see what I see?”

“I’m afraid so. And did you hear what I just heard?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Have you ever heard that song before?”

“Yeah. Last night. Hank, do you believe in ghosts?”

“Affirmative.”

“What?”

“Yes.”

“What are we going to do now?”

The old man looked up from his hymn book and fixed his horrible bluish eyes on us. His right arm rose from his side and he pointed a finger at us. His lips moved and he said, “Dogs. D-O-G-S!”

And he started towards us—floating above the floor instead of walking.

The hair on my back shot up. “Drover, I don’t know what you’re going to do, but I’m fixing to build a new door in this cake house. See you around, son, it’s every dog for himself!”

In my career as Head of Ranch Security, I have made a few claims that stretched the truth just a tiny bit. Yes, and I have exaggerated a few stories. But fellers, when I tell you that I by George ran smooth over that cake house door, you can put ’er down as 100% Guaranteed Truth. (See Guarantee of 100% Truth at end of book.)

I did it, and if there had been five doors there instead of one, I would have taken out every one of them. The brethern and the sistren and the Followers of the Lamb might have been happy in that place, but it was time for this old dog to hunt some fresh air.

I didn’t slow down or look back until I reached the house. Up ahead, I saw that Slim had just helped Miss Viola into the pickup and was about to close the door. I made a flying lap and landed right in her leap . . . flying leap and landed in her lap, I should say, and Drover was right behind me.

“What . . . where . . . why you crazy dogs, get out of that pickup!”

Did he think he was going to throw us out? Leave us there with that cake house full of ghosts and disturbed spirits?

No way.

There weren’t enough winch trucks in Ochiltree County to drag me out of that pickup. When he tried to lift me out, I sank my claws into the seat covers and dug in.

“Why Slim,” said Miss Viola, “these dogs act scared to death! Look at the way their hair is standing up. Why don’t you let them ride up here with us. They’ll be all right.”

“Well . . . if you’re sure they won’t bother you.”

He walked around to the other side, climbed in, and started the motor, and off we went to take Miss Viola home.

Slim looked down at me and laughed. “’Smatter, Hankie, did them Halloween spooks get you mutts all stirred up?”

No. Well, maybe a little, at first.

“Well Hank, they were just the neighbors’ kids, dressed up in costumes.”

Yes, yes, we’d figgered that out.

“But you bought the whole program, thought they was creatures from the Black Lagoon!”

No, I’d thought nothing of the sort.

“Well, they got their candy and they’ve gone home, and we won’t see spooks again for another year.”

That’s what he thought.

“You know, dogs are sure funny. One minute they’ll do something that seems about halfway smart, and then they’ll pull a stunt that makes you think they don’t have any more brains than a rick of wood.”

I laid my head across Miss Viola’s lap and looked up into her eyes. She had a peculiar expression on her face, kind of serious, thoughtful. She wasn’t laughing and making fun like some people I could mention.

She stroked me behind the ears, and for a long time she didn’t say anything. Then, at last, she said, “Slim, these dogs are really scared. The hair hasn’t gone down on their backs yet, and they’re both shaking. It almost makes you think they’d seen . . . a ghost.”

“Nah, they’re just typical ranch dogs, don’t have sense enough to . . . you know, when I first moved into that place, one of the neighbors came over and told me some wild yarn about the cake house.”

“The cake house?”

“Yeah. He said back in the old days, it used to be a one room schoolhouse and they held church services in it on Sundays.”

“That’s right,” said Viola. “The old Alfalfa schoolhouse.”

“That’s what he called it. He said they had a circuit-riding preacher many years ago, an old feller named John Dunham. One night at a revival service, he got so carried away, he just upped and died, and they buried him right out there behind the church.

“And what this neighbor told me was that every once in a while, old John Dunham comes back and tries to finish his revival service. I thought it was a pretty good story, myself, but of course I don’t believe it.”

“You don’t?”

“Heck no! Do you think I’d stay in that house if I thought there was a ghost around? I’d be gone so fast, he’d have to ride a fast horse to haunt me!” There was a moment of silence. “I don’t believe in ghosts, but I wouldn’t want to live next door to one.”

We reached Viola’s house. Slim left the motor running and got out to open her door. She took my head in both her hands and looked deep into my eyes.

“Hank,” she whispered, “did you see old John Dunham’s ghost tonight?” I whapped my tail against the floor. She smiled. “I think you did! And he scared the bejeebers out of you, didn’t he?” I whapped my tail again, harder this time. “Slim would never believe that, but I do. I saw old John Dunham’s ghost once when I was a little girl, and he scared the bejeebers out of me too.”

Slim opened her door and waited for her to step out. She moved my head out of her lap and scratched me behind the ears. “You’re a good dog, Hank. Thanks for helping me with supper.”

She gave me a wink and then she was gone. I stood up on the seat and watched her go up the walk and up the steps. just before she went inside, she turned and waved good-bye—to me.

I had the feeling that with just a little effort, I could fall head-over-heels in love with that old gal.

Slim climbed inside and we headed back to the place. He was feeling pretty good, smiling to himself and humming a song. When we bounced over the first cattle guard, he looked around at me.

“You ever see a lady who ate as much as that one? Boys, Miss Viola loved my Cowboy Round Steak! Next time, I’ll have to double the recipe.”

At that very moment, I burped. Pure garlic, from his famous Cowboy Round Steak.

When we got back to the place, Slim walked up to the door and closed his hand around the knob. He noticed that Mister Hide-on-the Porch and I were poised and ready to shoot inside.

“Don’t you dogs want to sleep in the cake house tonight? I believe if I was a dog I’d . . .”

But by then he’d already opened the door a crack, and that was all the space we needed. We were gone! We shot the gap, made a lightning dash back to the bedroom, dived into the bed, and crawled under the covers.

I dropped right off to sleep, but Drover wanted to talk.

“Hank, sometimes I get confused about what’s real and what’s not real. Do you reckon that was a real ghost we saw tonight?”

“Znork sprunk zizzifriss.”

“Yeah, me too. I sure was scared.”

“Zonkly sprinkling zordnipoof.”

“Pete told us we’d see a ghost, and we sure did. Were you scared as bad as I was?”

“Zzzall I can tell you, Viola, is what I’ve zzzaid many timezzz before.”

“My name’s Drover. We left Viola at her house.”

I opened my eyes and sat up. “Exactly, and you’ve just barged into a delicious dream I was having.”

“Oh, ’scuse me. What was it you’ve told me many times before?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were fixing to tell me something you’ve told me many times before.”

“Oh, yes. Good night, Drover.”

“That’s all?”

“Good night, Drover, and shut your little trap.”

“Oh. Good night, Hank.”

“Good night, Drover.”

“Good night.”

“Nighty-night, Hank.”

“Nighty shut up.”

And with that, I pulled the rubber stopper of experience and listened as the bathwater of life went gurgling down the pipes of zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzZ Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z

Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z