by Mac Flynn
"'Eb?'" Adam repeated.
"Ebeneezer Scald, the dirtiest man in the county," Mrs. Simmons explained.
"And a teller of tall tales," I added.
"Well, it seems these tales aren't as tall as some of this others because Old Greg's seen the monster, too," she added.
"Yeah, but sometimes Old Greg starts seeing things when somebody's put ideas in his head. Remember the time he thought the gophers had grown to mutant sizes because his son was telling him about comic books?" I pointed out.
Adam smiled. "Were they mutant gophers?"
Simmons snorted and waved her hand at him. "No, dear, they were just badgers. The first anyone had seen in a long time around here."
"Finally found it!" Ben spoke up as he strode through the doorway to the back room. In his hands was a gallon of ice cream partially encased in ice and with signs of having been chipped free with a pick. He plopped it down on the wide counter in front of us and little chunks of ice slid everything. "It may look bad on the outside, but these tubs'll outlast all of us." He popped open the tough plastic lid and showed us the clear, un-crystallized interior that contained Adam's lemon ice cream. "See what I mean?"
"Very impressive," Adam agreed.
Simmons scowled at her husband. "You interrupted our conversation, Ben."
"Sounded mighty philosophical, from what I caught in the back. Something about mutant gophers. Old Greg telling tall tales again?" he teased.
"We were wondering if there was any truth to these wolf tales," I spoke up.
Ben grabbed some bowls and began scooping the requested ice cream flavors into them. "Well, I don't know about a wolf, but Old Greg saw something that spooked him, and it wasn't a coyote that killed his cattle. One of his hands came in and told me about it. Ordered a strawberry milkshake, his usual, and gave all the grisly details. It was something big that got those cows, that's for sure, and there was some big tracks."
I watched him pile on the scoops and the stack grew higher and higher. Ben had a good memory in the past, especially when fulfilling orders for a dozen people at a time, but he must have slipped in the last few years. "Um, Ben, we ordered a small bowl, not a punhc bowl," I reminded him.
He grinned and kept scooping until the bowls were graced with a dozen scoops. "You think old Ben's gotten a little soft in the head like the soft ice cream? Well, these bowls are on the house to celebrate your little visit."
"That's very kind of you," Adam spoke up.
Ben slid the towering bowls towards us and handed us large spoons. "Isn't nothing to talk about." He leaned toward me and winked. "I'm sure that mom of yours is starving you out of her house."
I snorted. "Yeah, we're wasting away like Dad."
"Ben, you were saying about the tracks," his wife reminded him. She hated to have a story stopped mid-telling.
"Oh, right. Now lemme see here." He tapped his chin and through his eyes I could see those well-oiled cogs working. "Well, there was some big tracks. He showed me pictures, and the sheriff took some casts. They were huge, like a big dog, but longer and wider. Almost looked like somebody was wearing some skinny shoes with wolf tracks on the bottom. Maybe that's where that columnist fellow got the idea it was a werewolf."
"So you don't believe it?" I wondered.
He shrugged as he cleaned off his scoop with water and a towel. "I don't know, but those were some pretty funny-looking tracks."
Mrs. Simmons puffed up and frowned at her husband. "I for one believe Old Greg. He's never been known to lie, and there's far too much proof to say he was lying."
"Did they try following the tracks?" Adam asked them.
"Yep, with some hunting dogs from Sheriff Wyman. He hunts grouse with them, but the dogs didn't think this was a grouse. They just barked and growled at the tracks. Couldn't get them to go more than a few yards before they'd stop and howl and bark," Ben told us.
"So what about Eb seeing the wolf-thing first? Did he get a good look at it?" I spoke up.
Mrs. Simmons sniffed and shook her head. "No. He says it was too dark and he had a hangover at the time. All he knew was there was a wolf prowling around his shack and it left the same footprints like those around Old Greg's place."
"And these incidents happened at the same time?" Adam guessed.
"No, a few days apart, though between those days some of those cross country skiers found the remains of some poor animals, torn to shreds like Old Greg's cattle," she added.
"Any footprints there?" I asked her.
"There'd been some fresh snow the night before so they didn't notice any tracks on the ground," she replied.
Adam set down his spoon and we all turned to him. His bowl was empty, and if I didn't know his manners I swore he licked it clean. Mrs. Simmons blinked at the empty container and Ben chuckled. "You've got a healthy appetite there, son."
"How can I have anything else with such delicious ice cream and wonderful company?" he countered.
Ben's smile broadened, and Mrs. Simmons waved her hand at him and blushed. "My goodness, but you are a sweet one with words. Chrissy, wherever did you find him?"
"Would you believe in the middle of the woods?" I asked her.
"No, but you have to point me to these woods," she pleaded.
Ben shook his head and winked at me. His wife was always saying such things, but their fifty-year marriage spoke for itself. I glanced down at my bowl of melting fudge and chocolate chips. "Um, as much as I agree with Adam on the company part, I think I'm going to need a doggy-bag for this pile before it melts."
"No problem," Ben obliged. He pushed off the counter and grabbed a small plastic tub. "As I always say, I'd rather watch somebody walk out with these tubs than see ice cream go to waste."
My ice cream slid into the container and we slipped off our stools. "Thanks, Ben, you're a lifesaver," I told him.
His wife and he led us to the door of the shop, and Ben handed us two more gallons of my favorite, along with Adam's lemon, and winked at us. "Don't make yourself such a stranger, and if you ever have some young'uns you just remember old Ben's name," he told us.
"Ben!" Mrs. Simmons scolded him.
"We'll be sure to do that," Adam promised with a wide smile on his face.
"Good, now go have some fun in the snow before the next blizzard comes. I can feel one coming in my ice cream nozzles," he warned us.
We slipped into the car and Adam turned to me with a raised eyebrow. "Can he really feel anything in the nozzles?"
I shrugged and started the car. "I don't know, but he's more reliable than any weatherman. If he says a storm's coming then a storm's coming."
Chapter 8
I drove us down Main Street. "So what did you think of their stories?" I asked Adam.
"They leave us very little to go on," he replied.
I snorted. "Wolf tracks and the dogs howling aren't enough?"
"It might still be a non-native creature that the dogs don't recognize," he mused.
"And the prints?"
"I must admit those are troubling."
"So where to now? Well, besides home, so I can drop off all this ice cream before it becomes a puddle of chocolate and lemony goodness."
"Do you know the location of this 'Old Greg's' farm?" he wondered.
I nodded. "Yep, it's actually past my parents' home five miles up the road. Sometimes if the wind's right you can smell his feedlot."
"Sounds enchanting."
"Well, my mom can get all the manure she wants for a good price."
"Will this 'Old Greg' be pleased if we visited him?" he asked me.
I snorted. "Old Greg never said 'no' to anybody who wanted a look around his place. He's got a green thumb when it comes to raising beef cow and likes to show it off. Well, in his own, quiet way. He won't go out of his way to brag, but he'll show it if you want a tour."
"A tour is exactly what I wish," Adam confirmed.
We stopped off at home and Mom greeted us on the porch. "Back already?" she wondered.
"We stopped off at Ben's ice cream parlor and he loaded us up," I explained.
She smiled. "I see. Well, there should be room in one of the freezers, but if you have any of your favorite you'll want to hide it in the beef freezer so your dad won't find it."
"Speaking of Dad, where is he?" I asked her as we trudged inside.
She nodded at the living room. "After breakfast he said something about sitting in his chair to have a food coma, and I haven't heard a peep from him since."
I rubbed my still-full stomach. "Not a bad idea."
"Should I expect you two for lunch, or just dinner?" Mom asked us.
I looked to Adam, who smiled. "We'll gladly be here for both," he assured her.
My mom's smile widened. "Good, now let's put this ice cream away before your dad-"
"Ice cream?" a voice spoke up. Dad peeked his head around the corner of the living room doorway.
"Not for you, dear,' Mom scolded him.
"He might be able to have some if he's good," I teased.
Dad snorted. "I should have spanked you more when I had the chance."
"Ralph," Mom warned him as she slipped away with the ice cream.
"You were spanked?" Adam wondered.
A mischievous twinkle slipped into my dad's eyes. "Oh yes, plenty of times. She was a very naughty girl."
I put my hands on my hips and glared at him. "I wasn't that bad," I argued.
"What about the time you gave laxatives to one of the chickens?" he reminded me.
I blushed and coughed into my hand. "That was for a-um, a science experiment."
"And the time you climbed onto the roof to lie in wait for Santa?" he added.
"I was seven, and it wasn't that cold of a year!"
He snorted. "It took me an hour to get you down, and by that time Santa had come and gone."
"That's because Mom stuffed the presents under the tree while you coaxed me down," I countered.
Adam set his hands on my shoulders and chuckled. "You must tell me more during lunch, but weren't you going to show me some of the country?" he reminded me.
I frowned, but half-turned away from my parental adversary. "You tell him any more and you're not getting any ice cream," I warned my dad.
My dad raised an eyebrow. "Where exactly were you two planning on going?"
"Just to-um-"
"To Old Greg's farm. I was curious to see the footprints they found," Adam admitted.
"I see. Is that why you two came here to visit?" he inquired.
I cringed, but nodded. "Yeah."
My dad's gaze fell on Adam, and there was suspicion in his eyes. "You're not an investigator or anything like that, are you?"
Adam smiled and shook his head. "Nothing like that at all. I merely have an interest in fantastic stories."
Dad sighed and shrugged. "Kids these days are interested in most anything weird and strange. Well, don't go bothering too many people with questions. They've already answered some with that column and they might not feel like answering the same ones again," he warned us.
Adam bowed his head and directed me to the door. "We will be sure to not bother anyone," he promised.
"And be back in time for lunch or your mom will worry!" he called to us.
"We will," I shouted back as we left.
We slipped back into the car, but I ignored the ignition and turned to Adam. "You sure that was such a good idea telling my dad why we were really here?"
"Honesty is the best policy. Otherwise we would have to waste energy on remembering our lies," he pointed out.
"Yeah, but-well, I don't know. I guess I don't want them to think you're abnormal or anything. Well, any more abnormal than any guy who ever dated me," I commented.
He chuckled. "I'm sure I can't be any more unusual than Stinky Peterson."
I started the engine and scowled at him. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"
"I'm afraid my rampant jealousy won't allow it."
I pulled us out of the barn yard and down the drive to the road. "Uh-huh. How about you take your rampant jealousy and stuff it? After all, I've got more reasons to be jealous. You're a heck of a lot older than me, and you've been married. Also, you won't turn me into a werewolf, and when we get into trouble I really wish I could do half the things you can."
Adam sighed. "I will ponder your request."
I whipped my head to him and I nearly drove us into the snow drifts on the side of the road. I corrected our course before I confirmed what he said. "Seriously?"
He nodded. "Very seriously."
I raised an eyebrow. "Why the change in heart? Only yesterday you were like 'hell no,' and now you're telling me 'maybe?'"
He smiled. "Perhaps it was the influence of your parents. I-I wish to have such an open and amicable relationship with another person, but our differences in species keeps me from being completely open with you."
I snorted. "I never thought my parents would help me with my boyfriend problems. My dad would be disappointed to know he hasn't scared you silly."
"I will have to act terrified when he warns me again to keep care of you."
"Just act uneasy. Terrified is a little overdoing it."
"I will try my best."
In a few minutes we arrived at Old Greg's farm. The property ran along the road and a fence made of wooden slats ran along the opposite side of the ditch. Beyond the wooden fence was barbed wire as far as the eye could see which was a couple of miles. Cows grazed along a strip of spread hay. They lifted their heads and stared at us as we bumped onto the long driveway and passed them. Ahead of us was a large, two-story farmhouse, twice as large as the one owned by my parents, and opposite that was a big barn. Instead of the single open barn with the double doors, there were three partitions in the tall, wide barn, and each had their own double doors. Beyond the barn was more feedlot for his other hundred head, and in the far distance I could just make out the broad backs of the bulls separated from the cows until calving season came.
The barnyard was a mess of truck, sled, and feet tracks, and against the barn was piled enough snow to make a decent sledding hill. Water had been added for extra slickness, and a pile of sleds lay at the foot to await the next play time.
We pulled up behind a beat-up white pickup truck. A man of eighty came out on the porch, and behind him a half dozen kids ages five to ten peeked their heads out. The man had a full head of white and gray hair, and wore coveralls with boots and a thick, fleece-lined coat. He strode to the edge of the porch and smiled at us as we exited the car.
"What can I do for you folks?" he asked us as we came up to stand beneath him.
"I don't know if you remember me, Mr. Greg, but I'm Christina Monet and this is my friend, Adam Smith," I introduced us.
He snorted. "I'm not bound to forget the girl who came two miles to see if she could try her hand at being a matador with my bulls."
Adam turned to me with a bewildered expression. "Did you really try that?"
I shrugged. "I was ten."
"I still can't say whether that was the stupidest or bravest thing I've ever seen, but it's up there with all the trouble my brood gets into," Old Greg quipped. The crew behind him twittered in laughter. He turned to them and waved his hand at the group. "Go on back inside. You're letting all the warm air out of the house." They giggled, but shut the door. Soon enough there was a mess of eyes looking at us from behind the living room curtains. "Grandkids are nothing but trouble, but they do make an old man feel young. Anyways, what can I do for you and your man, Chrissy?"
I snorted at the title he gave to Adam, so Adam spoke for us. "We heard about the attack on your cattle, and were curious to know what happened."
Greg frowned and rubbed his chin with one wizened hand. "That again, eh? Well, can't say I blame you for being curious. I still can't figure out what got them, but it must have been something big."
"Could you show us where they were attacked?" Adam requested.
Greg nodded. "Sure
, if you don't mind a bit of a walk. It happened in one of the farther fields, and that's why ya see so many of the cows out front. I don't trust 'em to be safe out there anymore. Let me just get Bessie and we'll go." He turned and slipped inside the house.
"'Bessie?'" Adam wondered.
"His ancient rifle," I explained. "I just hope he doesn't have to use it," I added with a mutter.
Chapter 9
Old Greg returned with his rifle and led us past the barn to the far fields closest to the forest. The way was easy to follow. The tracks from the police investigation covered the ground, and I saw the prints of the hounds owned by the sheriff.
"When did you find the animals?" Adam asked our guide.
"I heard 'em bawling at about three in the morning and came out here. Whatever it was must have heard me coming because I saw something dart into the woods and shot at it, but I missed. Damn thing was too fast," he grumbled.
"So you thought it was a wolf?" Adam wondered.
He shook his head. "Nope, I thought it was a werewolf. Some of the folks around here think I'm a little nuts for saying that, but that columnist from that city paper ate it up like it was my wife's apple pie," he commented. He paused and his eyes darted between us. "I haven't told too many people about the whole werewolf thing. I've made most people think it's a wolf, but that thing was too big to be a wolf. 'Course, that writer goes and writes about a werewolf and suddenly I'm a bit of a loon like Eb."
"We'll promise not to say anything, if that's what you wish," Adam swore.
Old Greg nodded. "Yep. Just keep it mum, at least until they prove me right or wrong."
"Any hope of that happening?" I spoke up.
He pursed his lips and shook his head. "Nope, but let's get going. We're almost there, but I can feel a storm coming in my knees." We trudged onward through the messy snow. I knew we'd arrived when I saw the red snow dyed by the blood of his animals. Bits of fur remained, but the carcasses were gone and buried. He gestured to the bloody areas. "Lost two good cows here. That werewolf didn't even bother to finish the first before it killed the second." Adam knelt down and brushed his hand over the blood and fur. Greg moved to stand beside me and nodded at Adam. "He some sort of a wolf whisperer or something?"
"Something like that," I agreed.
"We were told the dogs wouldn't follow the scent. Is this true?" Adam inquired.
"Yep. Just growled and howled. Worthless mutts, and the sheriff saying he didn't know what was wrong with them. I know what was wrong with them, it was that damn werewolf scent, but he didn't want to hear anything about that. Wrote it down as a wolf problem. I'll go along with that until I'm proven right," Greg explained.