Free The Grasshopper Trap by Patrick F. McManus Page B

Rance?” I said, hoping he was about to come up with a brilliant idea that would lead us out of the swamp. Even at that young age I had discovered that when a group of people finds itself in a predicament, nothing so calms fears and nourishes hope as the expression of calm deliberation on the face of one of the members. It is an expression that conveys the message, “This mess we’re in is but a riddle, which I am about to solve with my powers of inductive and deductive reasoning.”
    â€œC’mon, Rance,” I said. “What are you thinking about? Have you figured out how to get us out of here?”
    â€œWha? What’d you say? Ah must hev drifted off thar fer a spell. You fellers got any idear whar in tarnation we is?”
    Sometimes, of course, the person with the expression of calm deliberation on his face has the reasoning powers of a golfball.
    Birdy raised his eerie moaning by two octaves. “We’re gonna die in this stupid swamp, I just know it.”
    For the first time that day, I thought Birdy might have a point.
    In its upper reaches, the river was an energetic, somewhat boisterous stream that flowed from one point to another in a no-nonsense manner. In the swamp, however, it turned lazy and slothful, sprawling out in a drunken stupor of aimlessly meandering channels. Most of the channels ended in bogs that could have slurped down a team of plow horses, had the plow horses been dumb enough to pole a raft into the swamp. Our problem was how to find the main channel.
    Dark, shimmering clouds of mosquitoes and gnats hovered above us, kept at bay only by the periodic bursts of sizzling profanity from the old woodsman. As hoarseness overcame Rancid late in the day, however, the insects unleashed their pent-up fury and ravenous appetites upon us.
    â€œGol-dang,” Rancid croaked through a haze of gnats. “Ah thank we oughtta go in the direction of that big dark shadow over thar.”
    â€œWhich dark shadow?” I said.
    â€œThe great big’un. The one what’s shaped like a barn.”
    Birdy and I started poling the raft toward the shadow shaped like a barn. Suddenly we detected some current in the water.
    â€œMaybe we’ve hit the main channel!” I yelled.
    â€œAh told you Ah knew what Ah was doin’!” Rancid gloated.
    We poled into the shadow, feeling our way through low-hanging branches. Dead moss hair brushed our faces, strange
protuberances reached up for us from the watery depths. Then moonlight began filtering into the swamp. Mist rose from the water in a manner befitting a Count Dracula movie. Swamp creatures filled the night with eerie sounds—screeches, hoots, howls, chitters, chatters, and wails.
    â€œStop the wails, Birdy,” I said. “They give me the creeps.”
    â€œS-say, Mr. Crabtree,” Birdy said. “A-about where was it in the swamp you saw the killer bat as big as a goat?”
    â€œHuh? What? Oh, the killer bat. Heh heh. Waal, Ah cain’t rightly say whar it was. Might of been right near here. Area looks kinder familiar.”
    Birdy started with the wails again.
    â€œGeez, Birdy,” I said. “You’ll believe anything anybody tells you. There’s no such thing as a killer bat as big as a goat.”
    â€œIs too,” Rancid said.
    â€œIs not.”
    â€œIs.”
    â€œBut M-Mr. Crabtree s-saw it,” Birdy said.
    â€œThar! Thet proves it!” Rancid said. “And it was a fearsome-lookin’ critter, Ah can tell you. Ah shore hope he don’t notice us.”
    Rancid’s mood had improved considerably, since it was now obvious we had found the main channel. Indeed, the water had stretched out into something vaguely resembling a river.
    â€œSay, Rance,” I said. “Let’s make this ol’ raft get up and move. Birdy’s gettin’ awfully tired. Why don’t you take a turn at his pole?”
    â€œOh, all right,” Rancid said,