The Case of the Fiddle Playing Fox

by John R. Erickson

  “I’ll be derned, that’s pretty impressive, and I’m glad to know . . . On the other hand, we mustn’t forget that I’ve just caught you in the act of slipping out of the chicken house.”

  “Oh that! Don’t think a thing about that, son. I was glad to do it. If this fiddle of mine can make them old gals laugh and dance—why, Hank, life has no greater reward than that!”

  “Yes, well I . . .”

  “And I’ll tell you this.” He tapped me on the shoulder with his bow. “I’m just a poor old fox, I’ve got nothing to show for my years on this earth but a broke-down fiddle and a five-hair bow, but son, I have had the high honor of bringing pleasure and joy into the lives of others.”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes. That’s wonderful.”

  “It is, believe me.”

  “But there’s still this little matter of the eggs.”

  “Hank, what I’m a-fixing to say comes from the bottom of my heart, and I want you to listen.” He looked me square in the eyes. “Them eggs wouldn’t mean any more to me if they were made of solid gold. Please, please don’t be embarrassed.”

  “Well, actually I . . .”

  “It was the best you could do. It was the best the chickens could do. And that’s good enough for Frankie the Fox. If the day ever comes when Frankie won’t play his fiddle for a few eggs, son, may I be struck dead by uh—lightning!”

  Somehow this wasn’t . . . “The point is, I caught you in the act of stealing eggs, and on this outfit, stealing eggs is a pretty serious crime.”

  He narrowed his eyes and the smile fell away from his mouth. “Stealing eggs? You think I was a-stealing eggs?”

  “That’s correct.”

  He came over and put a paw around my shoulder. “Hank. Hank, son! Let me explain something to you. You are a smart dog, but you have been on this ranch too long. It has done something to your mind. You are a-getting too serious about things.

  “Now look here. If I had been a common thief, do you think them hens would have invited me in? And if I had been a-stealin’ their eggs, don’t you reckon they would have made some noise about it? Now, search your heart, Hank, and tell the truth.”

  “Yes, well I did . . . wonder about that . . . a little.”

  “Of course you did! Your mind said I was a-stealing eggs, but your heart said, ‘No. He ain’t a-stealing eggs. He’s a-making our hens happy, and tomorrow they’ll lay more eggs than ever.’”

  He stepped back and gave me kind of a sad smile. “Here I am, Hank, I’m just a poor old fox who tries to get by and make the world a little brighter. If you think the world would be a better place if I was called a common thief and punished for it, then go ahead and do it. I ain’t a-going to run. And if your heart tells you that I should be shot, I’ll even leave you my fiddle.”

  Well, that made me feel like a louse, him offering to . . . it would have been much easier for me to turn him in if he’d acted like a thief and run away. But he didn’t.

  Hey, this was a tough decision. My mind said he was a-stealing eggs, but my heart said, “No. He wasn’t a-stealin eggs. He was a-making our hens happy, and tomorrow they’ll lay more eggs than ever.”

  And he was an extra fine fiddle player, which was no small bananas.

  By this time the lights had come on down at the house. It would be easy to sound the alarm and bring Loper to the scene with his gun.

  I paced back and forth, wrestling with this decision, trying to sort out what was right and what was wrong. After several long heart-pounding minutes, I stopped pacing.

  “Okay, I’ve reached a decision.”

  “Good. And Hank, I want you to know that whichever way it goes, we’re still friends.”

  “I’ve decided, after much soul-searching and deliberizing, to let it slide—this time.”

  Frankie the Fox grinned and gave me a little bow. “You’re a very wise dog. I’d take my hat off to you, Hank, but you know, I’m just a poor old fox and I never could afford . . .”

  “Never mind the sad story. I’ll let it slide this time, but you’ve got to promise to stay away from my chicken house. Whether it’s stealing or not, you’re making me look bad.”

  A look of pain came over his face. “Hank, son! I would never, ever do anything that made you look bad. Believe me.”

  “Then you’ll stay away from my outfit. Oh, and one more thing. I’m going to put this last egg back where it belongs. It just doesn’t look right for you to be walking away with an egg.”

  “Hank, if that’s what your old heart tells you to do, then that’s what you should do.”

  I gave him a sour look. “I’d feel better about this whole deal if you’d quit talking about my heart. Somehow that makes me uneasy.”

  I scooped the egg up in my powerful jaws and slipped through the door. I was in the process of looking for a nest in which to deposit the egg when . . .

  I never had much respect for the intelligence of a chicken. Some animals, such as cats, are merely dumb. Chickens are dumb dumb. Do you think those chickens were glad to see their Head of Ranch Security? Do you suppose they showed me any gratitude or gave me any praise for staying up all night to protect their stupid . . .?

  No. Here’s what they did. I nuzzled a sleeping hen with my nose, see, with the idea of dropping the egg into her nest. Her eyes popped open, her beak popped open, and she began shrieking and flapping her wings.

  “IT’S A FOX, IT’S A FOX!!” she screamed. Well, that woke up the whole house, and within seconds, every bird in the place was screaming, “It’s a fox, it’s a fox!”

  Dumb birds.

  Furthermore, she smacked me across the nose with one of her stupid flapping wings and . . . all at once I felt a pleasant warm sensation spreading across the interior portion of my mouth and . . . I’d never supposed that I would go for the taste of . . . I mean, eating raw eggs was sort of a violation of the law in our part of the . . .

  Hmmmmm. Not bad. In fact, all at once I could kind of understand how a guy might . . . I spit out the shells and peered into the nest and saw . . . hmmmmmmmmmm.

  It seemed to me that I was entitled to something for all my hard work and sacrifice. I mean, I’d been up all night guarding the chicken house, right? And a little old measly egg was the only payment they could come up with.

  I, uh, accepted their offer, so to speak. It would have been tacky to turn it down . . . don’t you see.

  But in the meantime, that chicken house had turned into a bee hive, with birds flying around in all directions, feathers floating through the air, chickens bouncing off the walls, squawking, flapping, and it was then that I heard the back door slam down at the . . .

  HUH?

  I was, well, sort of in the chicken house. With several eggs’ worth of evidence on my face. And the chickens were making a terrible racket. And this appeared to be one of those situations that could lead to a misunderstanding.

  Which is basically why I decided to get the heck out of there.

  I shot through the door and scrambled outside. There was Frankie, shaking his head and scowling. “Son, you have a heavy touch with the chickens. I don’t know what your plans are right now, but old Frankie is a-fixin’ to shuffle along.”

  “Yes, and I think I’ll walk you to the county road or thereabouts.”

  We were streaking away from, the chicken house, and just as we got underway, we met Drover coming out of the machine shed.

  “Hank, I heard . . . a fox . . . egg on your face . . . what . . . oh, my gosh, Hank, what’s going on here?”

  “Never mind, Drover. Either run for your life or prepare to answer some tough questions when Loper gets here!”

  “Oh my gosh! I think I’ll run, if this old leg . . .”

  With Frankie in the lead, we swooped around the west side of the machine shed and took aim for the cap rocks to the north. I was hoping w
ith all my heart and mind and soul that Loper wouldn’t see us running away, since that might have raised troublesome questions about our participation, so to speak, in the chicken house incident.

  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

  We 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.”