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It took Farmer Tom close to an hour to finish milking the dogs, but when he was done he was rewarded with two buckets of creamy white goodness. Taking one in each of his gnarled hands, he headed for the icehouse.
To get there he had to walk past the cornfield. What he saw there almost made him drop what he was holding.
Crows. For as far as the eye could see there were filthy black crows growing fat on his precious crop.
A troubling darkness welled up in old Farmer Tom. The ground rumbled beneath his feet before he regained control of his emotions. After he put away the milk he went and found his pitchfork. Then he made a beeline for the figure nailed to the crossbars in the center of the field. When the figure saw him coming it tried to escape, but it was too weak to break free.
"Damned lazy screamcrow," Farmer Tom growled as he jabbed the sharpened tines into the figure's unprotected belly. "Scream, dammit! That's what you're here for. Scream!"
The screamcrow did just that. The terrible sound hit the crows, causing them to fly away like a dark shadow fleeing from the morning sun. Farmer Tom's burden lightened as he watched them vanish from sight. He knew they'd be back in force, but for now his corn was safe.
Even after the crows were frightened off, the screamcrow continued to scream. Farmer Tom let it. As he listened its voice got weak and raspy. Just by closing his eyes Farmer Tom could tell that he would have to be riding into town soon to trap a new screamcrow.
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