By the time Donnie got back it was approaching noon and the sun was blazing in early summer fury. Finding nobody at home in his cottage, he headed for the store where he found an unusually large gathering of men, including several with guns.
Police captain Lynch seemed to be in charge. "I want three men on each team," he said, "we will cover five sectors. Otto, hand me a piece of that wrapping paper, I'm going to draw a map."
Otto Giessow, standing behind the counter tore a large piece of brown wrapping paper from a roll and handed it to Captain Lynch along with a flat stubby red carpenter's pencil. Donnie, like Jaybird, was afraid of Captain Lynch, it was those black bushy eyebrows and that enormous black pistol. But today Donnie thought Captain Lynch looked a bit ridiculous wearing baggy brown pants rolled up above his ankles showing his clunky black police shoes and socks. He also wore a green baseball cap, and a blue flowered short sleeve shirt with his heavy police badge pinned to it. The big pistol hung in a shiny leather holster strapped around his waist with a wide leather belt.
Lynch sat at a table in one of the booths and spread the paper out in front of him. Five men squeezed into the booth with Lynch, and 12 more gathered around as best they could, straining to see what Lynch was doing. Donnie stood away from the group, watching.
Lynch drew a long winding double line starting from the bottom of the paper and bending to the right across the middle of the paper. "This is Grand Avenue," he said. "it runs from the entrance out here on the Ware Road," he labeled the Cottage Farm entrance on the bottom of the paper, " all the way to the top of the hill here, which marks the other end of the property." He looked up at Otto Giessow and asked, "How many miles do you think that is, Otto?"
"About three and a half miles," answered Grampa Giessow.
Lynch drew another wavy double line close the top of the paper. "This is the Big River," he said, pointing to the lines he had just drawn and sweeping his pencil along their length. Next he made a gesture with his pencil indicating the space between the two double lines representing the road and the river. "This area is almost all a steep decline all the way down to the river," he said. "This is where we will look first."
A chorus of voices sang out. Hands went up, heads shook in agreement and in disagreement. Captain Lynch looked around in surprise. He held up his hands. "Wait. Wait. We can't all talk at once. One at a time, please." Lynch was not prepared for dissent. He was used to giving orders, he was not used to having his orders questioned.
"It's a waste of time to search those slopes, Lynch, you won't find Jaybird there, that's not where he goes." It was Jaybird's Uncle George speaking. Jaybird actually had two Uncle Georges, one was his mom's brother, George Giessow, the other, George Rogge, was married to his mom's sister Jayne. Rogge played football for the University of Iowa when he was in college, and presently for the St. Louis Gunners professional team.
George Giessow was the uncle currently informing Captain Lynch. Lynch looked at him condescendently. "George," he said, "the search must be organized ... if Jaybird is in the hands of a killer, they could be anywhere."
"How do you know he's in the hands of a killer?" Asked Joe Crowley, a stout, red-faced man wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and sunglasses.
Lynch sighed. "Let's go over it one more time," he said. "... Two days ago, Sheriff O'Leary from DeSoto came to tell us that a farmer over by Ware had been shot to death, and that the man who shot him was last seen heading in the direction of Cottage Farm. Jaybird ..."
Lynch was interrupted by Professor Guth. "How does the sheriff know it wasn't the farmer's wife who shot him, and that she made up the story about a killer? Were there any witnesses?"
Lynch was annoyed. "It's not our job to be detectives here, Guth," he said, "if Sheriff O'Leary tells us we should be on the lookout for a runaway killer, we should pay attention to what he says. Anyway, we know for sure that Jaybird has been missing for two days and we have to find him. It seems like more than a coincidence that Jaybird turned up missing around the same time we learned about the killer on the loose."
"I know ..." Donnie started to speak, but was cut off by Captain Lynch.
"It's important to make a systematic search ..." Lynch was interrupted by a question from the stout man in the straw hat. "Has Jaybird ever been gone like this before?"
Jaybird's dad answered. "It's not the first time he's stayed out in the woods, but he's never been gone this long."
"Are you worried about him?"
Jaybird's dad shrugged. "He's a tough little monkey, he can pretty much take care of himself, but his mom is worried sick. You know how it is with women."
Bill Bridwell, an insurance salesman from south St. Louis spoke. "Wait a minute, Lynch, " he said, "let's get something straight here. Is that why all these guys are packing guns? You want us to go out looking for an armed killer? Are you nuts? We could end up shooting ourselves."
Lynch looked at Bridwell pityingly. "You don't have to go if you're scared Bridwell," he said, "this is strictly volunteer. Nobody is forced to do anything. Anybody who's scared would just get in the way."
Bridwell was indignant. "Don't give us that crap, Lynch. None of us are trained to hunt down fugitives. You're trying to form a posse ... you've been watching too many cowboy movies. What are we going to do if we catch him? Lynch him?" He laughed at his own joke. So did everyone else. Except Lynch.
Captain Lynch turned red in the face, he was not used to being the butt of a joke. "Look here, Bridwell," he began, but was interrupted by a wail from the playground followed by a chorus of excited cries.
A small girl burst into the store, the screen door slamming with a smack behind her. "Jeri got hit with a circle swing!" she shouted, "somebody come help, she's bleeding, and she's knocked out."
The store cleared out in a hurry as everyone ran to the circle swings to see what had happened. The circle swings were one of Grampa Giessow's inventions to entertain the kids. When not in use, 10 heavy chains attached to a swivel hung down from the top of a 12 foot metal pole. At the end of the chains, about three feet above the ground, two metal bars, 12 inches apart, like rungs on a short ladder, were secured. The bars were hand-holds. When a child grasped the hand-holds and began to run in a circle, the chain swung out from the top, and by lifting their feet the child could literally fly in a circle around the pole. The genius of the circle swings was that the faster you ran the higher you could fly. The delight of younger children was to have an older child, ideally a teenager who could run fast, provide the impetus for a high flying ride around Grampa Giessow's maypole. When two or three teenagers at a time engaged the circle swings, it was possible for the rotation to be so fast that little kids along for the ride could find themselves whirling at a frightening speed almost parallel to the ground.
As exciting as they were, the circle swings were not without hazard ... since there were 10 positions on the pole, any unoccupied chain flew around the pole like a flying missile. Today one of those missiles connected to the unsuspecting 6-year old skull of Jeri Bridwell and knocked her for a loop. When her dad reached her she was crawling on her hands and knees away from the circle swings and crying loudly. "You got to do something about those swings, Otto," Bridwell said as he carried his sobbing daughter into the store.
Grampa Giessow, behind the counter, handed Bridwell a bag of crushed ice. "It's part of growin' up," he said, "kids should learn to keep their heads down and pay attention to flying objects. Sometimes they learn the hard way. Is the skin broken?"
Bridwell had removed his shirt and was holding it against the back of his daughter's head. He answered Grampa Giessow's question by holding up the white shirt to display patches of red. "I don't think it's as bad as it looks," he said, scalp wounds bleed a lot."
"I bet an Eskimo Pie would make her feel better," said Grampa Giessow.
Meanwhile, out on the playground, Captain Lynch tried to regroup his posse. He sat on the slanted down board of a see saw, his feet propped against the hand hold. There were three boards spaced at intervals along a three feet high metal pipe support. Lynch sat in the middle, Jaybird's dad sat on the board to Lynch's right, Uncle George Rogge on the board to his left. The others gathered around.
Professor Guth took up the absent Bridwell's point. "You know Bridwell could be right," he said, "it may not be such a good idea to send a bunch of amateurs out there with a killer on the loose."
Lynch was disgusted. "Make up your mind, Guth," he said, "first you doubt whether there's a killer at all, now you say we shouldn't go look for him."
"Are we looking for the killer, or are we looking for Jaybird?" Joe Crowley asked.
Everyone looked at Captain Lynch. He thought he had already explained things to the group. In fact he thought he had explained things twice. Lynch was not a homicide cop, although he would have given a lot to be one. He was in fact a Captain in the traffic division of the St.Louis municipal police force, a job that was getting tougher all the time as more and more trucks, buses, and automobiles appeared on St. Louis streets designed mostly for horse carts and buggies. Lynch had joined the force 20 years ago after coming back from France, a time when the choice job was to be in the mounted police force. To this day Lynch liked nothing better than to direct traffic or control crowds from the back of his prize black police stallion. Why hadn't he thought of that sooner? Grampa Giessow kept a few horses for guest recreation down at the barn at the end of Olive avenue. He could conduct his part of the search on horseback.
"Lynch? ... Lynch?" Lynch emerged from his reverie with the realization that somebody was calling his name. He looked up. "What?" he asked.
"Are we looking for the killer, or are we looking for Jaybird?"
Lynch hopped up from the sliding board. "You fellows can do what you like," he said, "I'm goin' down to the barn and get me a horse."
The men watched in alarm as their erstwhile leader walked away without even looking back.
"What would a posse be without a horse?" asked Professor Guth.
"Now what do we do?" Somebody asked.
Jaybird's cousin Donnie at long last saw his chance. "I know where Jaybird is," he said.
Heads turned in surprise, and a path was cleared to allow Donnie to move to the center of the group.
Donnie's father, another of Jaybird's uncles, was Otto Giessow's namesake, Otto Giessow junior, but everybody called him Bud. "What's the kid talking about, Bud?" Somebody asked, assuming that whatever a 9 year-old knew, the kid's father would know better.
Bud Giessow, a bottle of Hyde Park in his hand, hoisted the bottlecheerfully. "Damned if I know," he said, "why don't we ask the kid?" He turned to his son. "What are you talking about, Donnie?"
Donnie was not comfortable with all these faces looking down on him, but he screwed up his courage and repeated, " I know where Jaybird is."
Jaybird's dad asked, "You know where he is right now? Is he okay?"
Donnie shook his head. "He's not okay," he said, "he's hurt, and there's this crazy guy that looks like an ape with him."
"The killer," somebody said. Oaths and curses erupted from the group.
Donnie was pleased at the reaction his news had elicited. He had more to say. "Jaybird blew up his hand with a firecracker, and Phil took a shot at us with his rifle ... and Jaybird was shocked."
"Who's Phil?" The question came from several men at once.
"Phil is the crazy guy," answered Donnie, "the guy that looks like an ape." More oaths and curses.
Jaybird's dad was agitated. "What about his hand? What do you mean he blew it up?"
Donnie began to explain, but Jaybird's dad interrupted, "Never mind ... show us where he is. Let's go get him!" The others joined in with a loud chorus. "Come on!" ..."Let's go!."
Feeling the urgency, Donnie started to run across the playground, pointing the way, the posse of 12 eager if anxious men hard on his heels, determined to rescue Jaybird from the hands of a killer.
Jaybird and Phil, to say nothing of the dog, were long gone by the time the posse reached the treehouse where Donnie had last seen them. "They was here," he said.
"But they're not here now," said Jaybird's dad who had assumed the leadership role vacated by the departed Captain Lynch.
"They was goin' off to look for a doctor," said Donnie, "... to fix Jaybird's hand."
It took a moment for the meaning of Donnie's words to sink in. "Why would a killer want to fix Jaybird's hand?" Asked Uncle George Rogge, saying what had come to more than one mind.
"Phil wasn't tryin' to kill Jaybird," said Donnie.
Donnie's dad became agitated. He grabbed Donnie by the arm and roughly turned him around. "Are you making all this up, Donnie? First you tell us that this crazy guy took a shot at you and now you say he wasn't trying to kill you. So what's the story? I ought to box your lyin' ears."
Donnie pulled away from his dad. "I ain't lyin," he said, "Phil thought we was German soldiers, that's why he took a shot at us ... I told you he was crazy."
Donnie's dad was not satisfied. "So what's this stuff about a doctor? There's no doctor out here. Why didn't Jaybird come back with you?"
Donnie looked at Jaybird's dad ruefully. "Jaybird is runnin' away," he said, "he was afraid you would tan his hide if he came back."
Donnie's dad clipped him behind one ear with a flick of his middle finger. "That's about enough of this baloney," he pronounced.
Donnie pulled away and held his ear. "No," he said, "it's all true. Phil said he didn't think Jaybird was stupid for having a firecracker go off in his hand and when Jaybird heard that he said that settled it, he wasn't comin' back."
Jaybird's dad scoffed, "Anybody that holds a lighted firecracker in his hand must be pretty stupid all right," he said, "I thought Jaybird had more sense than that."
There seemed to be general agreement on that thought, but nobody seemed to have much of an idea what to do next. Joe Crowley asked what they were all thinking, "So what do we do now?"
They all looked at Jaybird's dad. He looked at Donnie. "Did they say where they were going?" he asked.
Donnie remembered. "Phil said there was a horse doctor over by Ware, and Jaybird said they could take a boat downriver to Morse's Mill."
"So which did they do?" asked Donnie's dad who had named his cottage "Donnie's Den" when Donnie was cute and cuddly, but now that Donnie was 9 seemed to be embarrassed by everything he said.
"I don't know," answered Donnie. Donnie's Dad groaned.
The men milled around aimlessly, waiting for some action, waiting for someone to tell them what to do. Nobody was prepared for a prolonged search, and it was getting close to lunch time. Jaybird's dad looked around at the group and realized that only he and Jaybird's two uncles, George and Bud, knew enough about the area to make any kind of intelligent guess regarding the whereabouts of a couple of fugitives. "All right," he said, "let's think about this for a minute. Let's try to be logical. If we were in their shoes, and we needed to get to a doctor quick, which way would we go, across country on foot about five miles, or downriver by boat about 15 miles?"
Uncle Bud said, "I'd go back up to Grand and Olive and take the truck over to DeSoto." There was general agreement that Donnie's dad had hit upon the most sensible thing to do.
Jaybird's dad agreed. "Right," he said, " but they didn't do that. So why didn't they do that? This guy Phil must be on the run, or just plain crazy like Donnie said ... anyway that's not what they did. So the question is this: did they head for Ware or for Morse's Mill?"
The men waited for Jaybird's dad to answer his own question. They didn't have to wait long. "There's no way to answer the question," he said, "we have to check out both places."
CRACK!
The startled men scrambled for cover at the sound of a nearby rifle shot. Donnie ducked behind a tree. A deathly silence ensued as frightened eyes darted around hoping they were not lined up in a crazy killer's gunsight.
CRACK! Another shot echoed through the trees. Donnie was the only one standing and thus was the only one who saw that the firing was coming from Joe Crowley who was trying without much luck to hit a squirrel he had spotted scrambling along a high limb. Donnie looked around at his dad and the others lying on the ground trying to keep their heads down. "He's only tryin' to hit a squirrel," Donnie called out.
Sheepishly and more than a little resentfully the men got to their feet and began yelling at Crowley coming back along the trail with a wide grin pasted across his big red Irish mug. "What are you guys scared of?" he laughed, "there's nobody out here but us squirrel hunters."
"It ain't funny, Crowley," said Jaybird's dad, "you coulda got yourself shot."
"Sorry guys," said Crowley, "I didn't mean to scare anybody. So what are we goin' to do?"
"How do we know they're not still around here someplace near?" asked Uncle Bud.
"I don't think so," said Donnie, "they was fixin' to go for a doctor."
Uncle Bud was not pleased to be corrected by his nine year old son.. "I think you told us all you got to tell us Donnie," he said, "how about if you just go on back to the cottage and leave all this searchin' to the grownups."
"But ..." Donnie started to protest but was cut short by an angry look and a threatening gesture from his dad.
"We could go down to the river and see if they took a boat," Rogge offered.
There was general agreement that this seemed like a good idea especially since nobody had any other ideas. Had they known what Jaybird knew, that a hundred yards on there was a stream flowing down the hill that would have taken them to the river, they would have arrived there at least 30 minutes sooner than the time it took them to retreat and find the more familiar way down the 180 concrete steps.
Arriving at last, they discovered that they were not any better off because there was no way to tell if any boats had been taken. They stood helplessly on the wooden dock looking out at the Big River flowing lazily along, unconcerned with the problems of a group of men who clearly had lost any thread of purpose.