The Legend of Butterfield Farm

Chapter Three

WAS HOLLY THE only one who noticed? Her little sister certainly didn’t. She was with Annie, who was totally into fetching the stick she pretended to toss. Henna giggled as the puppy darted about looking for where that stick must have gone, not realizing it was still in her hand behind her back. Then the Border collie suddenly stopped. She tilted her head from side to side and bolted off toward the orchard. Henna ran after her, calling for Annie to come back.

Holly turned to Cousin Clara. She was on the front porch brushing off a blade of grass from her pretty patent leather shoes. After checking her reflection in them, she went inside.

Over in the plowed garden, were Gordon and Cy, her eight- and five-year-old cousins. Both boys were barefoot, shirtless, and wearing shorts. They were playing some kind of war game. They stood about ten paces apart, pelting each other with dirt clods.

“Gordon and Cy, no thank you!” said Uncle Clark, and he ran over to referee the clod fight. 

Gordon turned toward his father just as a big clod hit him in the back of his head with great force.

Cy bent over in laughter.  This exposed the top of his head to Gordon’s return fire—a direct hit with an even bigger clod, with even greater force.

By the time their father arrived, Cy’s face formed a massive frown.

 “Gordon,” said his dad, “that’s a timeout for you in the gardening shed. He picked up Cy and brushed him off. “I’m serious, Gordon.” Clark pointed to the shed.  “Ten minutes timeout. Starting right now.”

With his head down, Gordon slowly went into the timeout jail and closed the door.

Clark and Cy disappeared into the house.

Holly shook her head, and then focused on the trees holding up the hammock. They were perfectly still now. What just happened? An earthquake? Whatever it was, why was she the only one who had felt it? Then she remembered Annie’s head tilt before running off. She must have sensed something, too.

Holly left the hammock and walked over to the side of the barn, trying to see where her sister and Annie had gone.

          Just then, the beat-up old truck that Wayne had encountered on Blundell Hollow Road pulled in and parked. A huge farmer in stained coveralls and a dusty John Deere cap pried himself out of the truck and lumbered over to the house. If anyone had seen him coming, they would have known he was as big as a grizzly bear and just as terrifying. As it was, though, the oversized visitor was able to get right up on top of Wayne before he turned around and got a close-up view of the grotesque stranger.

“Ohmygod!” said Wayne as he jumped back in horror, spilling the heavy boxes stacked on his dolly. 

The top box landed hard on the hideous visitor’s foot. He showed no sign of feeling it through his manure-encrusted work boots.

Wayne tried to pull himself together. “You surprised me, sneaking up on me like that. It’s not how you loo—I wasn’t frightened of your fa—I mean, your ears aren’t scary. I’m just saying . . . your scars, they’re fine by me.” He nervously cleared his throat and tried to change the subject. “I mean, pardon me . . . ahem . . . I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.” He nervously extended his hand. “I’m Wayne Steward, and you are?”

“Scooter Dummheller,” he said in a deep, raspy voice. To say the refrigerator-sized man had a firm handshake was a gross understatement. “Pleased to meetcha, neighbor. I been fixin’ ta ask a favor of ya.” His stiff, horribly-scarred face formed what was possibly a smile.

“Sure, no problem,” Wayne said while wincing.  “What can I do for you?” He finally got his throbbing hand free from Scooter’s vise grip and worked at getting the blood flowing again.