Part 3
Jenna Crowley
They drove back to Boggs' Landing, and set out once more, only this time, they took the swamp buggy. it was now pitch-dark, and the moon was obscured by heavy clouds, a fact for which the twins were grateful. They didn't want Buford alerting anyone to their whereabouts. The cypress trees loomed stark and black in the gloom, their drifts of Spanish moss blowing like graveshrouds. The eerie calls of night herons and other swamp birds sounding in the darkness, causing Woody to gulp nervously. The croaking and chirruping of bullfrogs and peepers sounded all about them. And from the distant bayous sounded the full-throated calls of bull gators.
The twins knew practically all of Fenokee Swamp, but they were now headed into a region few had dared to venture. Mocassin Hollow was a place very close to the deepest part of Fenokee, that fabled part of the swamp some said could swallow a man up forever. Buford was stretched out lazily on the prow of the swamp buggy. He had been almost as nervous as Woody when they first started out, but as usual, sleep took care of that pretty much. He knew they were safe as long as they were together, or Woody or Cindy Mae would give an alarm. So he just allowed himself to enjoy the cool rush of swamp air past his face, and the rich miasma of marshy scents it brought with it. The myriad scents of Fenokee swamp at night--it soothed his razzled nerves, and allowed him to drift into a semi-comfortable sleep. But thoughts of what had pillaged the Huffsteader farm, and what they might now be heading into, still flirted darkly through his mind.
"There it is," Buford heard Woody say, and one of his ears shot up. "Mocassin Hollow."
"Mocassin Hollow?" Buford echoed drowsily, as he lifted his head, and stared ahead through a grove of cypress trees. Someone had long ago posted a wooden sign that read MOCASSIN HOLLOW : PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.
"Golly!" said Woody. "Don't ya think maybe this ain't such a good idea, Sis?"
"We have to go on, Woody. If we want some answers, that is."
"Oh, alright, Sis." He swerved the buggy to the right, cutting a wide swath through the dark water, and headed on through the cypress trees. It wasn't long before they'd left the open areas of the swamp completely behind them. The cyrpess trees slowly closed behind them like a dark, forbidding wall. The weird croaks of frogs ,and the bellowing of the bull gators seemed much louder here, and more ominous. Buford no longer felt like sleeping. There was something about the section of swamp they had entered that demanded his every sense be on the alert. His ears were up, and pointed straight ahead, straining for the faintest possible trace of oncoming danger. Woody gulped in fear, as he looked around in the gloom, and even Cindy Mae looked nervous. By now they were indeed into the deepest, blackest part of Fenokee Swamp, farther than they had ever been before.
Then Buford's ultra-sensitive olfactory senses snagged onto the smell of something cooking-something that smelled like frog stew, and his nose flahsed bright red. The sudden sound of its beeping caused Woody to jump.
"What's up, Buford?" he asked.
Buford sprung to his feet, and his lanky form pointed straight ahead."Somethins' cookin'" he mumbled.
"What did he say?" Cindy Mae asked.
"He said something's cooking. But what is it?"
"I think he meant something's is cooking, Woody. I mean, someone's has a cookfire burning up ahead."
Buford, his nose still flashing like a red lightbulb, said, "There's light over there."
"Buford says there's light over there, right through them trees-I see it too!" Woody announced in a shaky voice.
Woody pulled the swamp buggy in closer, and eased up on the engine. The soft whirring of the blades died down, and they could all see it now. There was a soft, whitish-gold light seeping between the trunks of the bald cypresses.
They approached cautiously, weaving their buggy through the grove. At length,they could see where the light was issuing. Hoisted above the water on wooden stilts, as where most of the buildings on the edge of Fenokee, was a strange wooden dwelling. But this building was deep in the great swamp's heart, far from any human habitation. Woody gulped again when he saw it. The place had a peeling, dilapidated roof, and the boards were, crusted with greenish-gray mold, and thick with drifts of shaggy moss. But smoke curled up from a metal smoke pipe,and the windows glowed with warm light. The dwelling was clearly inhabitated, but by whom or what, he didn't want to guess.
"Mah grits and gravy," Woody said. "That's one uuugly place, Cindy Mae! It shore gives me the creeps!"
"Me too, Woody," Cindy Mae admitted. "But we've got to check it out, after we've come all the way out here. You guys up to it?"
"Er, uh, yeah, right, we sure are, Cindy Mae."
"Yeah, " agreed Buford, although he didn't sound all that convinced either.
"C'mon, then, let's get a move on!" said Cindy Mae, sounding as confident as ever.
They parked the buggy, and went up the wood stairs, and knocked testily on the frame door of the bizarre dwelling. For a while, nobody answered.
"Doesn't look like there's anybody home." Buford mumbled.
"Buford doesn't think, there's anybody here." said Woody. "Let's go."
But just then, the door did open up a crack. The weathered, grayish face of an elderly woman peered out. She had a cloth like a bandanna wrapped around her head. Her eyes glinted like black opals.
"What do you youngn's want?" she demanded in a sour voice.
"Excuse us, ma'am, said Cindy Mae. But are you by any chance Jenna Crowly, Jeb's sister?"
"That's none of yer business. Now be off with ya!"
She started to shut the door, but to the dismay of Buford and Woody, Cindy Mae stopped her. "It's about some kind of wild animal that's been raiding the farms around Fenokee. Some outsider folk told us you might know what it was."
This got the old lady's attention. "So...you met 'em did you? Well, that's right. I did tell some outsider folk about ol' Woundfoot. What's that to you."
"We'd like you to tell us more about Woundfoot, ma'am."
"I told them outsiders 'cause my powers told me what was happening at the Fenokee farms, and that some outsider folks was a-comin' in. I didn't want that mean old panther to be shot. He's lived to long to deserve that! So that's why I helped the outsiders. But I can't tell you folks nuthin', 'less you give me somethin' in return."
"What do you want?" Cindy Mae asked "Money?"
"Only if you're willing to do business. I read fortunes, and help people solve any problem they may have. But you must be willing. Shorely, there's something I may help you with?"
Cindy Mae didn't believe that for an instant, but she said,"Alright, fine, how much will it cost us for you to read our fortunes?"
"A buck each." replied Jenna Crowley tartly, if that really was her name.
Woody started to reach in his wallet for the money he and Cindy Mae had made at the local grocery. But the hag held up a boney hand. "Don't bother paying-not yet! Let me look yougn's over first. Which of you has a problem that needs fixing?"
"None of us!" started Cindy Mae, "we just want--"
But the old woman's eyes bore into her, and she fell silent. The woman's eyes panned over each of them, one at a time. Her face didn't change when she looked at Cindy Mae and Woody. But a strange, cold light came into her eyes when they fell upon Buford. "You!" she hissed through her corroded teeth, pointing a boney finger at the dog.
"Me?" said Buford, eyes going wide.
"You have a problem."
"I do?" Buford muttered, confused.
"Yes! A small, saucy little problem. Tell me, isn't there someone in your life who's your sworn enemy, someone you're out to get?
For several seconds, Buford looked confused as ever, but then the cold light of pure rage came into his eyes. His short fur bristled, and he growled in menace."
"What's she talking 'bout? Old Buford ain't out to git nobody!"
"Yes he is, Woody!" said Cindy Mae, sounding vaguely worried. "Don't you know who?"
Woody gasped, as suddenly he did know.
"You two stay out here." Jenna said to the twins. "Buford and I have business togather." She led Buford inside,and shut the door.
Buford looked around. The inside of Jenna Crowley's house made him shudder. There were some rude wooden furniture, including a table and some benches, in the middle of the room, rather the same as old Jeb's place. There was a kerosene lamp burning on the table, but there was also a large array of lighted candles packed in the windowsills. The room was illuminated eerily, in shades of vibrant yellow and orange. There was a stuffed 'possum, fangs abristle, on one of the tables, and from a wood shelf on one of the far walls there were arranged rows upon rows of tarnished glass jars and containers. Some of these held some kind of weird-looking fluids, like potions of some kind. Others held what looked like the mummified remains of animals of all sorts and species. One held what looked like preserved batwings, another filled with dully staring eyeballs packed tight as olives.
And in the rude stone fire place there actually sizzled and bubbled a frothing iron cauldron that looked like it really belonged to a witch!
It was all almost enough to make Buford make a yelping run for the door. But then Jenna said, "I know you want revenge on someone. I can give it too you."
Buford's eyes shut suddenly, then drew open again, as Jenna peered into then. Reflected in both of Buford's eyes was the masked, headbanded face of the Little Raccoon, his eyes shining with mischief, a face that said You'll never catch me, I'll always get away. I can get the better of you one hand tied around my back!
Buford shut his eyes, then opened them again, and the image was gone. Jenna Crowley hugged Buford's face,pinching his lavander hide in her boney fingers. "Yes, that's right. I can see it now. He always outwits you doesn't he? He always comes out on top. Except in your dreams. In your dreams you always trap him, isn't that right? Well, I can make those dreams of yours come true."
"You can?" Buford asked skeptically. He wasn't really sure he could ever catch the Raccoon.
"All it takes is minor potion. A potion for revenge. Revenge on mischief-makers!"
Buford remembered the time the Raccoon had tricked him into falling into a water trough. Could Jenna really help him? He wasn't sure, but it was worth taking a chance. He remembered that he hadn't always actually hated the Raccoon. It had however, always been in him to chase raccoons, partly because he instinctively recognized them as a natural enemy. But unlike some hounds, Buford was too lazy and good-natured to really want to harm the Raccoon with anything more than a nip on the tail. But that was before the incident at Jeb Crowley's. The twins and Buford had just managed to apprehend two escaped bankrobbers named Billy and Luke Scroggins, who had their loot buried out in the swamp. After the adventure, Jeb had treated them to his best shoo-fly pie. Feeling generous, Buford had offered the Little Raccoon a piece when he showed up. But the greedy little raccoon had stolen his pie and gobbled it up, leaving Buford holding the one piece. Having his pie flitched-and by a raccoon-was one thing Buford just couldn't let go. Thereafter, it was as though his natural animostiy for the raccoon was awakened, and he was out to get him. It didn't matter anymore that the Raccoon was merely being playful, even though he relished foiling his traditional enemy, a hound dog, or that his pranks were always harmless.
"Come, look into my cauldron." Jenna Crowley said. Buford peered over the lip into the greenish, churning liquid. Whatever it was he wasn't sure he wanted to know. "Now-let me fetch the proper ingredients." Buford watched as she gathered some glass jars from the shelf and set them on the table.
"Potion for vengeance!" she crowed. She screwed off one cap,and extracted a preseved batwing. "First, the wing of a swamp bat."
"Yuch!" Buford mumbled, and stepped back, as Jenna tossed the ingredient into the cauldron, causing it to fizz. She then retrieved the other loathsome ingredients, and touched them in as well. "Eyeball of a gator, oil from a river otter's fur, wart from the toe of year-old 'possum, pus squeezed from a swamp-rat's liver, seven venomous toadstools, the newly plucked fangs of a mocassin, and--" she looked around. "Oh, yes, there is one more ingredient we need.I must have a possession of the party whom you desire vengeance on."
"Possession?" Buford mumbled.
"Yes. Something that belongs to him. Some hairs from his tail would do just fine."
For several seconds, Buford was stumped. He didn't have any hairs from the Raccoon's tail. Then, something told him to look down at his right paw. Sandwitched between two white toes he saw a wad of chewing gum. It had to be a wad of the hot chewing gum the raccoon had given him for a prank, and it was still stuck between his paws. "Here" Buford said. He held out his foot to Jenna, who looked it over, then plucked out the wad of gum.
Jenna looked the gum over in the candlelight, turning it between her fingers. "Ahhhh..."
She quickly tossed the wad into the cauldron with the other ingredients. To Buford's amazement the liquid in the cauldron began to sizzle,and then to visibly churn, as though the gum had caused an intense chemical reaction. Then the swirling liquid changed from deep green to blue, to deep purple, finally fading to pale green, and simmering down. Jenna Crowley fetched a new jar and scooped out a volume of the contents. She screwed on the lid, and gave the weird greenish stuff a violent shake.
"Now...." she said, "drink this, and you'll be able to trap him next time you see him. Just like in your dreams."
Buford looked uncertain. Likely old Jenna was merely a charlatan, and was only tricking him. And that stuff in the jar certainly looked vile. But if there was just a chance he could get that ornery, good-for-nothing raccoon....
Buford siezed the jar, quickly screwed the top off, squeezed shut his eyes and forced himself to drink. He gulped loudly until he had swallowed it all. The liquid was thick as syrup, but very sour. Still, it didn't taste horrible. "Gee, that wasn't so bad," Buford mumbled.
Then both his ears sprung straight up, as he felt an itching and churning inside his stomach, as though he had swallowed a whirlpool. Blue smoke jetted out his ears, with a low scream like a steam whistle. Buford's eyes goggled as he suddenly turned from lavender to bright blue. A terrible burning sensation caught in his throat. His eyes turned carnation pink, and steam shot out of his mouth, jet-propelling him across the floor to slam into the far wall, his hindquarters slumped a meter up the wall, his head on the floor. His Confederate cap did a final summersault on his head. Then the deep indigo drained from him, and his normal color returned. Buford slumped to the floor, and shook himself. "That's some drink !" he muttered, and laughed slightly.
Jenna had already opened the door to let Woody and Cindy Mae in. "Buford, are you awright?" Woody exclaimed rubbing his friend on the back.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." mumbled Buford.
"Well, here's yer money, Ms. Crowly," said Cindy Mae. "now what can you tell us about what broke into the Huffsteader place. You figure it really was a panther named Woundfoot?"
"Ah shore do, youngn's. From what I know, Woundfoot is the last of the swamp panthers in these here parts, after the hunters killed the rest of them. But he don't come from Fenokee originally. He came up from over the county line ' bout five years ago. That's when a farmer by the name of Mule Johnson shot 'im, 'an that's how 'e got 'is name. He's had a bad right foot every since. You can always tell Woundfoot from his paw print. He mostly stays away from people like you'd expect 'im to. In fact, most folks think he's a myth 'an that Mule Johnston had too much to drink wjen he claimed he shot a genuine black panther. But folks over the border know he's real. The way I figure it, he thinks the farms here in rural Fenokee are easy pickings, and he aims to make this his permenate hunting ground."
"Well, that's all very interesting, Ms. Crowley," said Cindy Mae."but-"
"One more thing, " she said with a crooked smile smile. "Woundfoot always travels with his lacky, a 'possum called Slyface. Them two is tighter then a flee on a hounddog. Slyface cleans up on 'is kills, 'an he uses the ol' possum to spy for him, incase hunters are around."
"Woody," Cindy Mae said, "You thinking what I'm thinking?'
"Yeah! Them possum tracks, back at the Huffsteader barn. Golly! It must really have been that panther after all."
"But why were the hinges pried off."
"Well, I've told you all I know." Jenna said.
Meanwhile, Buford had slumped on the floor, and had started to dose off. But then suddenly a strange scent came to him, and all at once he was alert. His nose beeped red, and he followed the scent into a corner of the room, where he came upon a large, iron device. Buford, examined it curiously at first. The he ventured to sniff at it. Just what is was he wasn't sure yet, but somehow it smelled suspicious….like it didn't belong here. He touched what looked like a lever jutting out. Then all at once he knew, and not a second too soon. In a flash, he retracted his nose, just as the steel jaws of the trap slammed shut. "Yikes!" he exclaimed.
"What's that, Buford?" asked Woody.
"A trap, a trap!" Buford slurred, pointing at the cruel-looking device.
"Yeah," said Cindy Mae. "The kind they use to catch animals with."
"I use it to catch animals for my ingredients." Jenna Crowly said quickly.
"Well," said Cindy Mae, eager to change the subject, "I guess what we need to know is if that panther is raiding the Fenokee farms, where do you think he's going to strike next?"
Jenna shrugged. "Can't really say where he'll strike next. But I'd say he'd keep to the same territory around eastern Fenokee. If you 'spect to find 'im-e'en though ah don't recommend you do-you should check out that area, where I sent those Tarkins boys."
There seemed to be an inordinate amount of bugs in and about the old woman's house, especially crickets-their chirruping came from everywhere. One cricket leaped onto Buford's nose, causing the hound to go cross-eyed. The little insect starred at Buford amiably, rubbing his legs to give off his tune. "Shoo-shoo" said Buford, flapping his right paw. The tiny green insect sprung off the dog's nose, causing it to vibrate. He landed on a shelf overhead. Buford gazed up after him. The cricket's leap dislodged a small object from the shelf, which tumbled down in front of Buford. "What's this?" the hound muttered. He sniffed at it, then picked it up. It appeared to be a small whistle of some kind, so Buford placed it in his mouth. He shut his eyes and blew down hard on it. The shriek that barreled out of the tiny whistle, caused Buford's ears to fly straight up with fright. He leaped a foot up into the air, legs pinwheeling, to crash backward into the shelf. Jars, vials, and bundles of herbs clattered over him. Buford starred out in confusion from beneath the pile, his head ringing, still holding the whistle in his teeth.
Jenna and the twins looked over at him. They had been alarmed by the clatter, but hadn't reacted to the whistle at all.
"Hey, what's Buford found ?" asked Cindy Mae.
Woody went over and Buford handed him the whistle with his teeth. "Well, I'll be hornswaggled. Know what? I'll betcha this here's a dog whistle. That's how come Buford heard it 'an we didn't. What you figure, Cindy Mae?"
"I reckon yer right." said Cindy Mae. "ultra- high frequency, that humans can't hear. Only there's other animals can hear it too besides dogs. Animal trainers use them sometimes to-"
"You kids have overstayed your welcome!" snapped Jenna suddenly. "I gave you what you needed. You paid me. You must leave now. Look what that dog of yours has done to my collection!"
"Hey! Buford didn't mean it." Said Woody.
"Thank ya all the same, Ms. Crowly." Said Cindy Mae. "C'mon guys."
"Be careful, if ya run into Woundfoot!" called Jenna after them. "Hear he don't care too much for hounds!"