The True Blue Scouts of Sugar Man Swamp (7 page)

Then again, there was that whole hair ball thing. Humans. They had such weak stomachs. Still, hair balls notwithstanding, he knew that something was not right in the swamp. He meowed again, to no avail. For the third time that morning:
Alas!

J
UST A FEW MILES UP
the road from Paradise Pies Café, Coyoteman Jim wrapped up his overnight show on the local radio station KSUG. He stretched and yawned. The night had been long, and he was tired. The storm that had blown by had been a humdinger, and watching it on the radar had worn him out. Plus, he was worried about the Jaeger Stitch situation. He had learned about it the day before, when Jaeger and Sonny Boy came by the station to talk about airing some radio ads.

Coyoteman Jim wasn't a serious bona fide “twitcher” (a nickname for a birder), but he just loved to paddle through the dark ins and outs of the Bayou Tourterelle, looking and listening for the beautiful birds that made their homes in the Sugar Man Swamp. Like his old friend Audie, he too dreamed of one day seeing an actual ivory-billed woodpecker.

“Ghost bird,” he called it. Some people named it a Lord God bird, or a good-God bird. Some called it a Lazarus
bird. Others just called it IBWO, which was its official banding and spotting ID.

But to Coyoteman Jim, it was a ghost. Just like the Sugar Man himself. Something that had been there before, and still seemed to be there, even though there was no hard and fast evidence. He also knew that the bird would never, not in a million years, ever be more than a ghost if Jaeger Stitch's plans came to pass.

What would happen to the ivory-bill then? What would happen to the coots and terns and mud hens? Worse, what would happen to the Brayburns, Audie's daughter and grandson? Where would they go? The plans for the arena would surely put them out of business, especially since they called for paving over the canebrake sugar. He knew that the pies depended upon that sugar.

He took a sip of cold coffee and then set the cup on the console. Someone from the day shift would wander in pretty soon. It was time for him to sign off, so he did. “This is Coyoteman Jim, telling all you swamp critters to have a good day and a good idea.” Then he held his head back and bayed, “Arrrrooooo!”

The Voice of the Sugar Man Swamp wouldn't be back on the air until that night. In the meantime, he was ready for a mug of milk and a fried sugar pie.

S
OMEONE ELSE WAS HUNGRY TOO.
Operation Dewberry was in full swing. In less than five minutes, Bingo made it to Possum Hollow. In the dawn's early light, he opened his eyes as wide as he could. He didn't see anything or anyone. Only a big batch of gleaming berries.

Let it be said that, in general, possums are relatively benign. But the possums in the Sugar Man Swamp are from an ancient, primeval tribe of possums, and “benign” is not how we would describe them. “Scrappy” might be a better choice of words. And they're also protective of their dewberry patch. Their
delicious
dewberry patch.

Bingo held his ear to the ground. All was quiet. There were no rumbles to be heard. He held his nose in the air. Possum scent was everywhere. But so was dewberry scent. He reached out and—“Ouch!” He had forgotten about the stinging pricker vines that the dewberries grew on. He tried again.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch.” He shook his paw. Maybe this
wasn't such a great idea after all. Maybe he should go right back to the DeSoto and call it a day. Maybe . . . His belly growled. The fresh scent of dewberries filled the air.

Soon, even though he had a few stings from the pricker vines, his belly was full of ripe, juicy dewberries. He rubbed it with both of his paws. What a nice, round, tight little belly.

Buuurrrppp!
Oops. He certainly hadn't meant to do that, even though he had to confess, it felt good.

So he did it again,
Buuurrrppp!
He rolled over onto his back in the cool morning air. He was in dewberry heaven. Then he felt decidedly bad that J'miah wasn't here with him, enjoying the bounty. Wasn't one of the Scout orders to be true and faithful to each other?

No problem, he thought. He would pick a pawful and take them back to the DeSoto. And just in time too, because as soon as he picked the last one—

“Step away from the dewberry patch.” The voice that delivered that statement did not sound at all friendly, nor did it smell friendly or look friendly. Indeed, possums are not friendly, and this one was not playing dead.

Bingo froze. But did he drop his dewberries? The ones he had picked for his dearly beloved brother, who was at that very moment sound asleep in the old DeSoto? No, he did not. But did he scoot out of there as fast as his little legs could carry him? He did, buckaroos, he did. Yeehaw!

C
HAP PUSHED HIS HAIR BEHIND
his ears. He needed a haircut. In fact, it seemed like he always needed a haircut. Every few days, his mother trimmed his bushy hair with the kitchen scissors. “It's just like the vines in the swamp,” she said. “Grows just as fast.”

With the exception of chest hairs, Chap was a fast grower, period. Already his shoes were two sizes larger than his grandpa's.

He remembered Audie telling him, “Son, big feet come in handy in the swamp. They're like boats and will keep you from sinking in the mud.”

Boats! They needed a whole boatload of cash. Where in the world, wondered Chap, would they come up with that much money? He gritted his teeth again.

To change the subject, he reached up and turned on the small radio that sat on the sill above the café sink, just in time to hear Coyoteman Jim sign off, “. . . have a good day and a good idea.”

And as the DJ's final
Arrrooooo!
filled the morning air, Chap had just that, a good idea. Hearing Coyoteman Jim's voice made him think that at least they had one reliable customer. But what they needed to increase their coffers was
more
reliable customers. And what they needed to get more customers was a good commercial on the radio. Maybe, just maybe, Coyoteman Jim would help them out.

And for the first time since Grandpa Audie had gone to meet his Maker, Chaparral Brayburn cracked a smile. If he could come up with one good idea, maybe, just maybe, he could come up with some others. He took another tiny sip of the now cold, bitter coffee. He peeked under this shirt. Chest hairs
had
to be growing.

C
LYDINE AND
B
UZZIE WERE SMILING
too. Just thinking about that wild sugarcane made them downright delirious. Buzzie's yellow tusks glowed. Clydine's yellow eyes gleamed.

“Sugar,” whispered Buzzie to Clydine.

“Sugar,” she said to her beloved boar.

“Sugar,” they said to each other.

Every wild hog in the continental USA came from stock that was imported from Europe, beginning with de Soto's Spanish sailing hogs. Most hog specialists think that they were likely Russian boars.

Spanish. Russian. Who cares?

What they were now was
wild.

Wilder than oats. Wilder than march hares. Wilder than the west wind.

And ravenous. Did we say ravenous? Those hogs were ravenous.

B
ACK IN
1949,
THERE WERE
no feral hogs in the Sugar Man Swamp. Not one. But Audie Brayburn hadn't gone to the swamp to look for hogs.

From the time he was fifteen until he turned twenty, he worked for a bakery in southeast Houston. For those five years he worked as many hours as he could, until by 1949 he saved enough money to buy a brand-new DeSoto Sportsman.

It had always been his dream to find the ivory-billed woodpecker, ever since he was a small boy and his father gave him his first birder's journal. In fact, his nickname was Audubon, for the famous avian artist, John James Audubon. It was quickly shortened to Audie. So, once he had that DeSoto, and a little pocket change left over, he headed east, to the first place he thought he might find the elusive woodpecker—the Sugar Man Swamp.

All he took with him were his old binoculars, his sketchbook, a Hohner Marine Band harmonica and his
Polaroid Land Camera, given to him by his parents as a parting gift. He also took a .30-caliber steel ammo can, which he bought at the Army/Navy Surplus. It was airtight and watertight, perfect for keeping his matches dry, and also for storing any photos that he took on his camera. One-of-a-kind photos.

After hours of driving, he finally found his way to the Sugar Man Swamp. He had never seen so many old trees, including dead trees that were still standing, perfect trees for woodpecker nests. He parked the DeSoto, set up his camp, and settled in.

At first, the critters of the forest dodged out of his way and stayed hidden from his sight. After all, most of the humans who entered their domain brought arrows and guns and traps with them. But as the days passed, the animals began to notice that Audie wasn't toting anything except for a pair of binoculars, a camera, an ammo can, and a book that he was always scratching in. And they loved the tunes he played on his harmonica. Just loved them.

Pretty soon Audie Brayburn was considered an Honorary Swamp Critter.

One day he got out his Polaroid Land Camera, pointed it toward an armadillo, and took his shot. As soon as he pulled the back of the film from the photo, he smiled. There, printed on the slick paper, was a perfect, instant picture of
a nine-banded armadillo, a surprised-looking armadillo, at that. Audie rolled a tube of gooey “coater” over the photo and waved it in the air until it was dry.

Just as he tucked the photo of the armadillo into his ammo can, he heard the unmistakable sound he had been waiting for. A sharp
kint kint
followed by
kaPOW kaPOW.

Only one creature on the entire planet made that sound, only one. He grabbed his binoculars and his camera and followed it. His heart raced in the same rhythm—
kaPow kaPow kaPow
. He hurried, stepping as lightly as he could. He paused here and there to cock his ears. Hours passed, and the sound pulled him deeper and deeper into the woods.

As he walked, he was so intent upon keeping the beautiful bird within earshot that he failed to notice that the air had grown increasingly still. Not a single leaf fluttered. Not a single animal stirred.

Nothing except the
kint kint
of the woodpecker, and the echoing
kaPOW
of his own beating heart.

Audie Brayburn should have paid attention to all that quiet, all that stillness. If he had, he would have realized that the only time the forest became that still was right before a major storm.

Instead, he kept following the certain sound of the ivory-billed woodpecker. The air was unbearably hot, sweat
soaked his clothes, the water from the swampy floor oozed into his boots, making them feel like lead weights on his feet. He was hungry and thirsty, but more than that, he was determined.

And then, just before the sun gave up for the day, Audie felt a
whoosh
of powerful wings fly just over his head, and he knew, he
knew
what it was, and with utter joy he spoke the words he'd been longing to say his whole life long. “Lord God, what a bird!”

The beautiful black wings with their trailing white feathers and the large red crest on the bird's head left no doubt. Everything about the bird said
ivory-bill
.

Audie raised his Polaroid Land Camera and snapped his shot. When he pulled the strip of film out and peeled the back off, there it was, in black and white: the broad black wings with their trailing feathers, the stripes on the sides of its neck, and the tall crest on its head. Audie opened the tube of coater and covered the surface of the shot, making sure there weren't any streaks. Then he waved the photo in the air until it dried, and slipped it into the ammo can. All just in time, because in the very next instant the rain began to fall, and there he was, deep, deep in the heart of the Sugar Man Swamp, without any idea where he was or where he had left his DeSoto Sportsman.

And worse, the rain was now erasing his footsteps. Audie
Brayburn was thoroughly and completely lost. But he was also thoroughly and completely happy. He had his photo of the ivory-billed woodpecker. But just in case he got the chance to take another shot, he checked the camera, and because it was getting so dark, he popped one of the small flashbulbs into the socket. He'd prove to the world that the bird was not extinct—that is, if he could ever find his way back to his car.

For a moment, he stood there, soaking wet, first from sweat and then from the big drops of rain that slid out of the sky. He had no idea which direction to go. He also noticed a dry scratch in the back of his throat.

Not only that, but it was getting darker and darker. There is hardly any place on earth that is darker than a swamp at night, especially in a rainstorm. All Audie knew was that somewhere he had left his brand-new 1949 DeSoto Sportsman, and if he could only find his way to the car, then he could take shelter.

He squeezed his camera shut, slung it across his shoulders, and hoped that the rain wouldn't ruin it. He wished he could store it in the ammo can, but it was too large for that. At least, he thought, the prized photos would stay dry. He patted the can and hugged it to his chest.

For hours he pushed his way through the swamp, tripping over tree roots and sloshing through shallow pools
of muck. He was soaked through and through, covered in mud. He kept patting his ammo can, to reassure himself that the photos inside it were safe and dry. He knew that no one would take him seriously if he claimed to have seen the ivory-billed woodpecker without proof. The photograph was his proof.

“Suitable for framing,” Audie announced. Yep. And even though he was thoroughly lost, he felt enormously lucky. And happy, too. So happy. And, he noticed, his nose was becoming increasingly stuffed up.