The Ghost of Popcorn Hill (4 page)

Peter ran outside. Martin followed more slowly, with Rosie at his heels. They sat on the rock at the end of the lot while Rosie wandered around, exploring.

“Now we'll never catch the sheepdog,” Peter said mournfully. “And he was starting to let us get close!”

Just then the big dog trotted out of the orchard and looked up.

“If we don't go down, he'll run away and find some other kids to live with,” Peter said. “What're we going to do, Martin?”

“We can't do anything,” Martin said. “We're stuck.”

For the next week they went regularly to look down at the orchard. Sometimes the sheepdog was waiting for them. Sometimes he didn't appear at all.

“He's going to give up,” Peter said gloomily. “He's going to go away, and we'll never see him again.”

Martin wished he could make his brother feel better. “At least Tom Buffle hasn't come around for a while,” he reminded Peter.

“He has too,” Peter argued. “He started to come night before last—I saw his suspenders and a little bit of his shirt. If I hadn't cried, he would have been
ho-ho-hoing
all over the place.”

Martin was sorry he'd brought up Tom Buffle. He felt bad every time he thought about the poor, lonely ghost.

“Well, at least Rosie isn't chewing stuff anymore,” he said, to change the subject. During the days they'd been grounded, he had taught Rosie to roll over and to sit up and beg.

Peter was silent. He didn't care what Rosie did.

When the last night of the grounding finally came, the boys couldn't sleep. Tomorrow they would be able to go down to the orchard again.

Suddenly Peter sat up in bed. “What's that noise?” he asked, looking around uneasily.

Martin heard it too—a soft
scritch-scratch
at the screen. He slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the window. Peter followed him. They stared into the moonlit yard, not daring to believe their eyes.

“It's him!” Peter exclaimed joyfully. “He came to find us.”

The sheepdog stood just outside the window, looking at them. Trembling with excitement, Martin opened the screen and stepped back.

“Come, boy,” he whispered. And the sheepdog came, leaping through the window. He ambled around the bedroom, sniffing the beds and poking his huge head into corners.

“I'm going to pet him,” Peter whispered. “Watch.”

He took a step forward and stopped. “Martin?” His voice rose in a wail.

Martin felt a lurch in the pit of his stomach. He blinked and looked again to see if the sheepdog was really glimmering and shimmering.

It was true. The moonlight was shining right through him!

“It can't happen,” Peter sobbed. “A dog can't be a ghost!”

Martin was as disappointed as he was frightened. “This one is,” he said grimly. “We just never got close enough to notice before.”

The sheepdog looked from one of them to the other, as if he were wondering what the fuss was about. Then he leaped up and floated across the room and out the window.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Good Girl!”

“I suppose you two will be off and running this morning,” Mr. Tracy said at breakfast. “Has it been a long week?”

“Sort of,” Martin said. Until last night it had seemed like the longest week of his life. Now it didn't matter. Now he knew the sheepdog could never join their family.

“What do
you
say, Peter?” their father asked curiously.

“Nothing.” Peter didn't look up. He made a hole in the middle of his oatmeal and watched it fill with milk.

Mr. Tracy leaned over and gave Rosie a pat. “Couple of grumps we have here this morning,” he said. “You keep an eye on them today, Rosie. Don't let them get lost.”

“Are you coming home for lunch, or do you want to take some sandwiches with you?” their mother asked.

“Sandwiches,” Martin said. He caught his father's eye and added, “Please.” For the first time since they'd moved there, he was eager to get away from Popcorn Hill for a while.

Without even discussing it, the boys headed down the road in front of the cabin and away from the orchard. Rosie romped around them, chasing butterflies and sassing the squirrels that chattered in the trees.

“She's silly,” Peter said. He kicked a stone into the brush at the side of the road.

“She's happy,” Martin said. But Rosie's cheerful mood was getting on his nerves. In spite of the shining day, all he could think about was ghosts. Now there were two of them haunting Popcorn Hill, and one of them was the dog he and Peter had dreamed of owning.

“Want to go to the creek?” Martin asked.

Peter shrugged. “Okay. I guess.”

By the time they reached the creek, they were tired and hot. The water was only about a foot deep, but it ran swiftly over the rocky bottom, making a cool
plish-plash
. The boys sat on the bank and took off their sneakers. Rosie barked at the ripples.

“She's never seen a creek before,” Martin said. “Wonder what she thinks it's for.”

A moment later Rosie showed them she knew. With a happy bark she leaped into the middle of the stream. Back and forth she splashed, sometimes jumping, sometimes swimming. When she spotted a big stone halfway across, she scrambled up onto it and barked at the boys.

“She looks funny,” Peter said, almost smiling. Rosie's coat was plastered to her thin body, and her feathery tail whipped the air like a wet rope.

“She wants us out there with her,” Martin said. “Come on.”

They splashed toward the rock, with Rosie getting more excited every second. When Martin was just a couple of feet away, she launched herself into the air, hitting him squarely on the chest. Down he went, knocking over Peter on the way. They crouched in the water and watched Rosie climb back on the rock.

“It's a game!” Martin laughed. “She's made up a game. She wants to defend that rock. She doesn't want us near it.”

“You stay here and I'll go around to the other side,” Peter said, splashing noisily through the water. “She won't know what to do.”

But Rosie was ready for him. For the next twenty minutes she defended herself against every attack, hurtling at them like a black-and-white cannonball when they got too close. Again and again the boys toppled backward, partly because it pleased Rosie so much and partly because the water felt good.

When they were too tired to play the game anymore, they waded to shore and opened the lunch bag their mother had packed. Rosie barked at them to come back, but soon she gave up too and joined them.

Peter broke off a corner of his peanut butter sandwich and dropped it in front of her.

“Good girl!” he said softly.

After lunch they followed the creek bed for a while, watching for fish and throwing stones in the water. Then they turned back toward home.

“I've got an idea,” Martin said slowly. “I've been thinking about—well, you know.” He hated to say the words and possibly spoil the day.

“What?” Peter looked at him suspiciously.

“About having two ghosts.”

“Don't talk about it,” Peter ordered.

“We have to,” Martin said. “They're there, aren't they? Tom Buffle's hanging around because he's lonesome, and the sheepdog came last night because he wants friends too. What I was thinking is, why don't we try to get them together? If they have each other, they won't need us.”

Peter stared. “How could we do that?”

“I'm not sure,” Martin said. “We'd have to wait till the dog came back again, and then we'd have to figure out a way to make Tom Buffle appear at the same time.”

Peter's eyes widened in horror. “No, no,
no!
” he roared. “You can't! You mustn't!” Rosie dashed between them, barking wildly.

“We have to,” Martin said. It seemed to him that a shadow had settled over them, even though there wasn't a cloud in the sky. “We can't lie awake watching for ghosts every night, can we?” He paused. “Can we?”

“Don't talk about it,” Peter said.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“If He Does Come Again, We'll Be Ready”

“Let's go out to the rock and watch for the ghost dog,” Martin whispered after supper that night. “If he sees us looking, maybe he'll come back to the cabin tonight.”

Peter shook his head. He picked up a ball from the bedroom floor and rolled it out into the kitchen for Rosie to chase. “I'd rather play with Rosie,” he said. “You'd better not go either.”

But Martin was determined. Now that he'd thought of bringing Tom Buffle and the sheepdog together, he was going to find a way. It was the only answer he could think of to their problem.

It was lonely out on the rock without Peter. Fog rested like cotton candy over the tops of the trees in the valley. Martin sat down and wrapped his arms around his knees.

If I see the dog, I'll just wave at him and run back to the cabin
, he decided uneasily. He didn't like ghosts any more than Peter did.

Minutes dragged by while he sat and thought about the ghost dog and Tom Buffle. Below him, the orchard and the little meadow in front of it disappeared from sight. The fog began creeping up Popcorn Hill.

Martin shivered. Bit by bit, the path up the hill vanished.
The dog could be right here before I know it
, he thought. He listened hard and imagined he heard the soft
flip-flop
of big paws.

He's here!
Martin jumped down off the rock and raced headlong toward the lights of the cabin. He had hoped to make sure the sheepdog was still around, but he didn't want to meet him out here all alone.

Mrs. Tracy was reading and Peter was drawing a picture when Martin burst through the doorway. Peter followed him into the bedroom.

“Did you see him?”

Martin peered out into the mist-filled yard. There was no sign of the dog. “I didn't see him,” he admitted. “But I'm pretty sure he was close by. And I've thought of a plan. If he does come again, we'll be ready.”

“I don't want to hear it,” Peter said.

Martin made a face. He was scared himself, and his brother wasn't helping. “Don't you want to get rid of the ghosts?” he demanded.

Peter wouldn't look up. “Sure I do,” he mumbled.

“Then you'd better listen, because you have to help.”

Peter threw himself down on his bed. “What do I have to do?” he asked unwillingly.

“Something you're real good at,” Martin said. He was still annoyed. “You have to cry.” And then he explained the plan he'd thought of, sitting out there in the fog.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

How the Plan Worked

Mrs. Tracy was sleepy and decided to go to bed early. That made the first part of the plan easy. Just before the boys climbed into bed themselves, they lifted the screen out of the bedroom window.

“I know a ghost dog could come right through a screen if he wanted to, but we have to be sure he knows he's welcome,” Martin explained.