Free The Case of the Fiddle Playing Fox by John R. Erickson Page B

eggs.”
    â€œAnd you’re suggesting that mere food could heal this terrible wound?”
    â€œIn a word, uh, yes.”
    My stomach growled again. “In that case, let’s adjourn to the chicken house and let Miss Beulah feather her own nest.”
    And off we went to the chicken house, never suspecting that . . . well, you’ll see.

Chapter Twelve: Heartbroken and Sprayed, but a Hero to the End

    O n our way to the chicken house, we talked.
    â€œFrankie, I was too good for her anyway.”
    â€œUm hmm.”
    â€œAny woman who’d chase after a bird dog is for the birds.”
    â€œI’m sure that’s right.”
    â€œAnd, to be quite frank, Frankie, I don’t even . . .” Suddenly I fell to the ground with a terrible pain in my chest. “Holy smokes, I think my heart’s cut half in two. I love her, Frankie, I can’t get her off my mind, rush me to the chicken house!”
    â€œGet up, son, I can’t carry you.”
    I struggled to my feet. Holding a front paw over my heart, I limped onward, until at last we reached the chicken house. The sun had gone down. Darkness had fallen over the valley and, best of all, the chickens had gone to roost.
    Frankie put his ear to the door and listened. When he straightened up, I saw that he was wearing that same old sly smile I had seen the night before.
    â€œAll’s well. I’ll go first and play. And then,” he winked, “uh, let the feast begin.”
    â€œI’ll be right behind you.”
    He cranked up his fiddle and slipped inside, and I followed a step or two behind. At that point, I began to notice that clouds had covered the full moon and that it was rather dark. Very dark. Pitch black.
    In other words, this job would have to be done strictly on sound and feel. I could hear the hens’ feet swishing across the floor as they got out of their nests and began to dance, and now and then a contented clucking sound came to my ears.
    So far so good. I came to the first nest and gobbled two nice, fresh, juicy eggs. Already the pain in my heart had begun to slip away. Yes, this was an excellent cure.
    I moved along and came to the next . . . this hen hadn’t left her nest. Perhaps she was old, or Baptist and didn’t believe in dancing. I would have to . . .
    Funny, I’d thought that all hens had feathers, not hair. I fumbled around in the darkness with my paws and . . . this hen had hair . That was a new one on . . .
    And a TAIL? A long tail with the hairs sticking straight out? Now, that beat it all. I had never heard of a chicken with hair and a tail.
    And four legs? Hmmm. Very strange.
    And, you know, the chicken house sure had a peculiar odor about it, almost like the smell of a . . . HUH?
    WHOOOOOOSH! SPLAT! SSSSSSSSSS!
    I stumbled through the darkness, gasping for breath and stepping on squawking hens. I tumbled out the door, and a moment later, Frankie tumbled out on top of me.
    We both gagged and coughed and caught our respective breaths, but then we had to make fast tracks for the creek bottom, since the chickens were raising a terrible stink. So to speak. Noise, actually.
    We ran for our lives and managed to reach the willows without being shot, collapsed on the ground and panted for air. The air, by the way, smelled awful.
    Frankie was the first to speak. “Son, I told you once before that you have a heavy touch with the chickens. What was it that went off in there?”
    â€œFrankie, the best I can figger is that they’ve got egg-laying skunks on this ranch.”
    â€œUh, no. The skunk might have been stealin ’ eggs, but he wasn’t a-layin’ eggs.”
    â€œWhatever. But I’m almost sure that there was a skunk in the nest.”
    â€œYes, I think you could say that. And he did go off and you did take a direct hit.”
    â€œYes, of course. It’s all coming together now: the hair, the tail, the four feet, the strange odor, and then the