Strange Perceptions by Chuck Heintzelman Page B

groundhogs as they popped their heads out of their holes. Buster lived half a mile away. With renewed energy I ran toward his place.
    I found Buster behind his house with Eugene Fitzgerald, playing marbles. Most people call Eugene “Tubs”, on account he’s fat. I don’t much like him. Not because he’s so fat, but because he always does stupid things to get you to like him. One time at school he brought a bag of nickels. Kids formed two lines in front of him. Each person from the head of the line would come up and he’d toss a nickel in the air. Whichever kid called heads or tails right got to keep the nickel. Kids eagerly took their nickel and ran back, getting in line to have another turn. I made $1.15 that day which I then spent at Sanfordson’s Mercantile buying so much candy that I puked on the way home. Tubs must have spent a small fortune trying to buy friends. As soon as he flipped his last nickel everyone left. A couple of kids were even mad at him for running out of money.
    I ran to Buster and Tubs, right into the circle they had drawn in the dirt.
    “Out of the way you stupid git,” Buster said.
    Leaning over, I put my hands on my thighs, panting and trying to catch my breath. “You got to help me. Duffy’s been captured by bank robbers.”
    “What?”
    I explained how we had been playing in the woods and came across Dry Gulch and his gang. How they ambushed us, conked Duffy on the head, how I had escaped and ran back to town, and how the Sheriff wasn’t around.
    “Let me grab my .22,” Buster said. “You can use it and I’ll use my dad’s .30-30 Winchester.”
    I figured Buster’s Dad would tan his tide for borrowing his new rifle, but I wasn’t going to say anything.
    “What about me?” Tubs asked.
    “You’re not going,” I said.
    “Come on guys. Let me come. I can be your lookout.”
    Buster and I exchanged a look. “Okay,” I said. “But if we have to make a run for it, it’s every man for himself.” I figured running might scare Tubs off.
    “What about my gun?” Tubs asked.
    “No.” Both Buster and I said at the same time.
    “That’s okay.” Tubs pulled a slingshot from his back pocket. “I got this.”
    Lotta good a slingshot would do against a wanted bank robber.
    We started off toward Trundle Creek. Tubs, as usual, couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He asked questions about where we were going, how far was it, who the bank robber was, and what our plan was. He was huffing and puffing so much you’d of thought he’d stop flapping his jaw, but no.
    I couldn’t take it no more. “Eugene, you got to be quiet.”
    “Why?”
    Buster cuffed him on the back of the head. “This is life and death, you stupid git.”
    We made it to just before the clearing in the woods. Tubs hadn’t made another peep.
    I held up my hand to stop and motioned them in close enough I could whisper. “Here’s the plan. Eugene, you stay here on the creek. If something happens you run as fast as you can back to town and get help. Buster, you head up the stream a couple hundred yards and then go straight left about fifty yards and turn and come back this way. That should put you behind the clearing. Wait for my signal.”
    “What’s the signal?”
    I made three whooping cries. The sound of a loon.
    Buster’s eyes went wide with what I took as appreciation of my skill. He gave me a thumbs-up before turning and trudging upstream.
    I worked my way to the edge of the clearing and hid behind a large bush. I parted the branches and looked around. The campfire was still there, but the men, and Duffy, were gone. I examined the perimeter in case Dry Gulch Davis left any men behind to ambush us. I couldn’t see anybody.
    I stepped out of the woods and made my loon call. Buster crashed through the brush on the other side of the clearing, rifle raised, moving it back and forth like he was trying to cover ten men at once. He looked at me, confused.
    I shrugged my shoulders and headed toward the campfire in