The Case of the Fiddle Playing Fox Page 4

  It must have been sometime past midnight when I realized that I was in danger of falling asleep. One of the things you can do to stay awake on a stakeout is talk to your partner. I decided to give it a shot.

  “Drover, it’s time to check in. Have you seen anyzzzzzzz . . . ?”

  “No thanks, I couldn’t hold another bite zzzzzzzzz.”

  “Uh, Roger, did you zzzzzzz get a count on ’em?”

  “Three green elephants dancing with a . . . zzzzzz.”

  “Come back on that one, Roger, we didn’t have a good . . . zzzzzz.”

  “Oh yeah, I’ve been wide asleep for . . . steak bones.”

  “Right. Well, I’m having a little troub . . . Beulah, you shouldn’t be here at this hour of the . . . having a little trouble staying . . . asleep myzzzzzzzzzelf. How about you?”

  “Oh sure, I’ll take all three . . . snort zzzzzz.”

  “Check and double zzzzz . . . got to stay asleep, no matter how hard it . . . zzzzzzz.”

  “Fiddle music.”

  “You bet. And the fiddler it is, the musicker I like it.”

  “Pete, I hear fiddle . . . fiddle-faddle . . . fiddle music.”

  “Don’t be obserd, Droving. Pete can’t play a . . . what did you say?”

  “Who?”

  “Just now. Someone was talking about Pete.”

  “No, that must have been . . . fiddle music.”

  “You keep talking about . . . fiddle musle . . . zzzzz.”

  I keep hearing . . . middle fusic . . . and steak bones.”

  “It’s just the crickles, Droving. Crickets.”

  “Do crickles play . . . fickle music?”

  “Roger, a big ten-four on the crickles.”

  Crickle? Fickle? Fiddle?

  HUH?

  Fiddle! Hey, unless my ears were deceiving me, I was hearing FIDDLE MUSIC! But that was impossible. Nobody on my ranch played the . . . nobody on my ranch had ever played the . . .

  I sat up and gave my head a shake. Just for a second there, I must have dozed off for a second or two. Not long, just a momentary lapse of a split second or two, but long enough to . . .

  Drover was dead asleep, the little dunce, sleeping on the job, sleeping through a very important stakeout, and I had a good mind to . . .

  That WAS fiddle music, and I wasn’t dreaming it. Not that I had been asleep, you understand, or that I might have been dreaming about anything at all, but on the other hand . . .

  I took my ears off Automatic Liftup and switched over to manual. I raised them to the Full Alert position, trimmed them out to Max G (that’s our shorthand term for “Maximum Gather­ing Mode,” don’t you see), and homed in on the alleged sound frequency.

  Fiddle music. No question about it. I could hear it as plain as day, but still my mind refused to accept it as real. And yet . . . I had picked it up on Max G, so it had to be the real thing.

  Very carefully, I threaded my nose through the weeds in front of me, pushing them aside so as to give myself a clear and unobsconded view of the chicken house. Everything appeared to be normal, but then . . .

  HOLY SMOKES!!

  My tail stuck straight out and the hair on my back shot straight up and my ears jumped three inches and cold chills went rolling down my backbone.

  I blinked my eyes, trying to convince them that they had malfunctioned. No luck there. Hence, after running checks and double-checks on all my sensory equipment, I still saw . . . a fox playing a fiddle, and strolling towards the chicken house.

  I saw it, fellers, and I heard it, but I still didn’t believe it. I had a peculiar reaction to this situation. I turned away and looked the other direction, hoping to give my racing mind a chance to catch up with . . . I’m not sure what a racing mind would catch up with, but the point is that I needed a moment to absorb all this.

  I tried to think and pull together bits of evidence and testimony and clues that I had gathered over the past several days. Chicken house. Broken eggs. J. T. Cluck’s bizarre story about hearing fiddle music in the night. Drover’s unbelievable tale about a fox playing a fiddle, which he himself had dismissed as nothing but a dream.

  But perhaps Drover had been mistaken. Per­haps he had misled me, thrown me off the trail, just as he had done so many times over the years. For you see, it was beginning to appear that the fox playing fiddle was NOT a dream at all, but an actual reality.

  And the most astounding thing of all was that I had suspected it all along.

  Yes, it was all coming back now and the pieces of the puzzle began falling into place. I took a deep breath and turned my eyes back to the chicken house, ready now to resume my observation.

  It was a fox, all right. In his original testimony, Drover had noted, and this is a direct quote, “We don’t have foxes around here.” Almost true but not quite. We don’t have red foxes or gray foxes or your other varieties of northern foxes, but we do have a few kit foxes.

  Your kit fox is about half the size of a coyote, don’t you see, which makes him a fairly small animal. He has a long pointed nose, beady little eyes, a light red coat, and a bushy tail. He lives in holes and eats such items as mice, grasshoppers, and rabbits.

  Or, when he can get them, he loves to eat anything he might find in a chicken house.

  They’re bad about thieving, them foxes, but very few of them play fiddles. This one was a little out of the ordinary in that respect.

  So what we had going on at that moment was a kit fox, walking slowly towards the chicken house and playing a tune on a fiddle, which pretty muchly fit into the pattern I had worked up earlier that day.

  The question now was, should I come out of hiding and use the Riot Axe on this little villain, or should I remain hidden and see what he would do?

  Since I didn’t actually have an airtight case against him, I decided to go with Opinion Two. I would remain hidden in the weeds, observe his every movement and gesture, and then, if he made one false move, I would spring my deadly trap on him.

  And I really had suspected a fox all along.

  Honest.

  Chapter Seven: Fiddle Hypnosis, and How I Managed to Resist It

  Okay. So there I was, and here’s what I saw.

  This fox came strolling down the gravel drive, the one that lays between the machine shed and the chicken house. The moon was bright enough so that I got a good look at him.

  I’ve already given a partial description, but I’ll do it again: kind of small and wiry, light red coat of hair, sharp pointed nose, cunning little eyes, long bushy tail with a splash of white on the tip end.

  He had that fiddle tucked under his chin and he was playing this tune and kind of singing along with it: “Dee dee dee-dum, dee dee dee dum-dee-dum dee dee, dee dee dee dee dee dum, dum dee dum dee dee dee dee.”

  And smiling. Did I mention that? Yes sir, had his eyes closed and he was smiling to himself, just as though he didn’t have a care in the world and was doing exactly what he ought to be doing.

  Now, I have to admit that after I’d watched and listened for a minute or two, the hair on my back began to lay down and the cold chills stopped skating down my spine. After I got over the initial shock of seeing a fox playing a fiddle in the dead of night, I sort of settled back and, well, enjoyed the music, you might say.

  It wasn’t half bad. In fact, it was pretty good. That little fox had obviously taken a lesson or two on the fiddle, and he was making some derned fine music—and I consider myself a pretty severe critic of such things.

  And the longer I watched and listened, the more I found myself hoping that he wouldn’t go into the chicken house. I mean, I’ve got no grudge against foxes. As long as they stay away from headquarters and leave my chickens alone, I’ve got no quarrel with them whatsoever.

  On the other hand, any creature that goes where he shouldn’t on my outfit becomes my
mortal enemy. Whether he’s a fox or a coyote or a coon or a Bengal tiger, it’s all the same to me. He gets persecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  Well, for a while there, it appeared that he would be content to play for himself in the moonlight, and as I say, I was kind of enjoying the concert. That was a snappy little tune he was playing, the kind that makes you want to tap your paw.

  And as a matter of fact, I did catch myself tapping my paw a time or two. Not anything serious, just a little tap here and there.

  But then . . . I raised up and lifted my ears and narrowed my eyes. Was he drifting closer to the chicken house? Yes, he definitely appeared to be drifting towards the little door in the middle of the chicken house.

  That was too bad. The scene to come flashed across my mind. The fox would stop playing, cast cunning and greedy glances to the left and to the right, and dive through the opening.

  This would be followed at once by an explosion of squawking and a blizzard of feathers as terrified chickens came flapping out the little door. A moment later, the villain would appear again, with egg all over his face and a murdered hen clenched in his jaws.

  And at that point, I would have no choice but to emerge from my hiding place in the weeds, bark an alarm to the house, and lumber down to settle all accounts with the villain.

  And his life would end there in front of the chicken house he had just robbed, snuffed out like a candle, either by the Head of Ranch Security or by a blast from Loper’s shotgun.

  And he would take his music with him to the grave. No more would we hear his fiddle in the moonlight.

  It would be a sad and sorry ending, and I would have much preferred a better one. But when you’re Head of Ranch Security, you have to write the endings as they come, and some of ’em ain’t real happy.

  I pushed myself up and tried to steel my iron will for what was about to come. The moment I heard the first chicken squawk, I would have to push the Button of No Return, for you see, if a chicken squawked and I didn’t sound the alarm, my boss would have grounds for stripping me of my rank and position.

  And dog food.

  Oh, terrible decision! Oh, heavy burden of responsibility! I hoped against hope that the fox wouldn’t dart inside and that no chicken would . . .

  Hmmm. That was odd. The fox DIDN’T dart inside and no chicken DID squawk.

  Now, this was stretching my powers of credulation. By George, I couldn’t believe what I was . . . two hens appeared at the door, and unless my eyes were playing tricks on me, they invited the fox inside!

  Hence, there was no squawking or flapping of wings, no signs of a forced entry. Hence, how could I . . . hmmm. Was it against Ranch Law for a fox to be INVITED into the chicken house?

  Ordinarily, my mind moves very quickly over matters of law and crinimality, and comes up with solutions in a matter of seconds. But this deal had me stumped.

  If a fox in the chicken house wasn’t a problem for the chickens, then maybe it shouldn’t be a problem for the Head of Ranch Security, is sort of the way I framed it up. So why should I risk my life and limb protecting a bunch of dumb chickens who didn’t appear to think they needed protecting?

  Okay. The fox stopped playing, smiled at the chickens, and gave them a little bow. And then he said, “Uh, good evening, ladies. Shall I come in and play a few tunes on my fiddle?”

  They motioned him inside. He threw a glance over his shoulder and hopped through the little door.

  “Drover,” I whispered, “this beats anything I ever saw. Cover me. I’m going down there to have a look.”

  “Morgle gurgle skiffering steak bones.”

  I pushed myself up, slipped out of the weeds, and began stalking towards the chicken house, taking one cautious step at a time. After covering a short distance in Stealthy Crouch Mode, I switched over to a faster pace and sprinted the rest of the way.

  Upon reaching the chicken house, I flattened myself against the front of the building and peered through the opening—and witnessed a very strange sight.

  The fox stood right in the middle of things, playing a song on his fiddle and showing that same contented smile I had seen before. And get this. All around him, the chickens were . . . you ain’t going to believe this, but here goes . . . the chickens were dancing the Panhandle Two-step!

  There was J. T. Cluck squiring some old hen around near the east wall, perhaps the same Elsa we had heard so much about. The rest of the couples were hens, dancing together. And they seemed no more concerned about the fox in the midst than if he’d been a fly or another chicken.

  But here’s the clinker. While the hens were dancing, that fox would lean over, stick his sharp nose into a nest, gobble an egg, and spit out the shells—and never miss a beat on that fiddle.

  He did all this in full view of the chickens, and it didn’t cause one ripple of concern.

  So! Now I understood why we hadn’t heard squawks of alarm the night before. It was an inside job! In giving me his testimony, J. T. Cluck had either lied to cover up his part in the conspiracy or . . . or else, for reasons I couldn’t explain, he’d had no memory of the event.

  Yes indeed, the wheels were turning now. I had pretty muchly firmed up my case and now the time had come for me to bust in there and . . .

  Sure was pretty music, the sweetest fiddle you ever heard. If there’s one thing this old world’s short on, it’s sweet fiddle music. I couldn’t remember when I’d . . .

  I could almost understand how a bunch of chickens might invite this guy into their house and . . . what else did a chicken have to do with its time? And it seemed fairly reasonable that they might pay him off in eggs, didn’t it? What else could . . .

  You know, there’s something almost hypnotic about a fid . . . flowers and pretty girls and young love, and me and Beulah . . . one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four . . . dancing around the room, her big collie eyes . . . something almost hypnotic about fiddle music.

  I mean, a guy has to concentrate real hard on his . . . one-two-three-four, a one-two-three-four . . . sweetest fiddle . . . on his business or he could very easily get . . . “Oh Hank, you’re a wonderful dancer!” . . . one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four . . . “Beulah, you’ve never been more beautiful than you are tonight” “. . . Hank, how did you know that I love fiddle music?”

  Anyway, the point is that if a guy didn’t concentrate pretty hard on his fiddle, he could sure get caught up in that sweet business music, because there’s something hypnotic . . .

  Pink streaks of dawn on the eastern horizon? That was odd. I must have dozed . . . I sat up and blinked my eyes. The music had stopped and the chicken house was dark and quiet. Somehow the night had slipped away from me, and perhaps that sneaking, egg-stealing fox had slipped away with it, which kind of annoyed me, don’t you know, seeing as how I’d intended to . . .

  Ah ha and oh ho! He hadn’t slipped away from me, because at that very moment I saw his bushy tail appear at the door, as he came backing out.

  I leaped to my feet and puffed myself up to my full height and massiveness, and announced to one startled fox, “Freeze, turkey! You’re under arrest!”

  Chapter Eight: Frankie the Fox

  Yes 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.”