Nothing much happened for a while and Mickey wasn't spotted again until late June. Henry Stinson caught Mickey in his outhouse ripping pages out of his Sears Roebuck catalog and the chase was on. He said Mickey had Raggedy Ann hefted over his right shoulder like King Kong carrying Faye Ray and he hollered to his wife to call the sheriff. Henry high-tailed it after him, not losing sight even as Mickey led him back to his hideout.

The sheriff called five or six men and they drove out to Stinson's place. In the meantime Tim over at Moon Mullet Radio Station tried to broadcast the news but he realized his transmission signal was absent. He got out the ladder, climbed on the roof and checked. Part of the antenna had been unscrewed and stolen. Of course, Mickey was the prime suspect.

Old Colonel Weber joined the hunt too. He and several other veterans of the Great War, now in their fifties and sixties came out carrying their trusty M-1's. And Kitty Lewis and several girls from the tavern showed up as well. Their bright frocks added color and they brought along a pleasing aroma that helped offset the smell of low tide. They fell in with all the others as the town congregated at a clearing in the woods. Mickey had cloistered himself in the top of a moss-covered naval oak tree the size of a house and chattered loudly, periodically pissing down on those assembled below. I was there with Cotton and Lenora and heard his diatribe plain as day. It sounded all the world like he was cussing us.

The men let loose a shooting barrage and that quieted the little bugger down. He ducked into a big hole and they practically blew the tree top off with their sustained assault. But it was getting dark and that was in his favor. It looked like Mickey would survive the day but he sure wasn't going to survive the next one. The crowd lingered quietly until about nine and listened intently as Mickey strummed Tom Phillips' ukulele from his hiding place in the top of the tree. The music wasn't too bad, considering, and seemed to calm folks down. Then most got bored and headed home. The posse left two men to stand guard and make sure old Mick didn't run off in the night. But the two got to drinking, fell asleep and that's exactly what he did. He slipped down and scampered off while they slept, even leaving a disgusting little calling card in their coffee pot to greet them in the morn.

The next day the crowd returned just after daylight and were hopeful to see the situation come to a successful and dramatic close. Two wiry men from the logging company flipped a silver dollar to see who would climb the tree. The one that won put on a helmet and gloves and holstered a Colt before he began the climb. Once he got to the top he could see it all laid out.

"Mickey's gone!" he shouted.

The crowd was sick with disbelief.

"Burn down the tree!" one man cried out loudly.

Mickey was gone but almost all the loot was there. It took eleven trips up and down to bring it all out. From pin cushions to hammers to missing 'Q's from scrabble boards, to four Bishop chess pieces, to the playing cards, canoe paddles, hubcaps, mullet nets and all the rest. Even Ezra's lariat. Every last thing was accounted for except Raggedy Ann, much to Lenora's grief, and Tom Phillip's ukulele.

Ezra was glad to be back in the lariat business and right away took to his Will Rogers roping routine again. We were glad he had something to do other than drink and recite poetry. Though my dog, Lindy wasn't partial to getting roped as Ezra sometimes corralled him for practice whenever we passed on the street. Some folks said Ezra went to Harvard and years later I learned they were right: Harvard Reform School, Decatur, Georgia, class of 1923.

© RDBrooks 2015

Cover art painting by William Skilling (1892-1964)