Anton and Cecil, Book 2 (9 page)

It was a large snake, its body coiled, its head raised, watching the cubs coldly as they drew closer and closer.

Gotcha saw it, too. “It's a durned rattler,” he whispered. No sooner had he said this than a strange shaking sound, like nothing Anton had ever heard, rose from the reptile's body. The sound made Anton bare his teeth and hiss.

Gotcha's mouth squinched up in a knot and he leaned forward on his black paws. “We got to do somethin', Anton, or those cubs is done for. You take the back, I'll get the front,” he said. “Just get a grip and pull.”

“Gotcha,” said Anton. And it was not until they were both streaking into the clearing that he realized he'd said the ferret's name.

The cubs looked up from their play to see a very small cat and a large ferret covering ground like two lightning bolts. They backed away, letting out high-pitched cries of alarm.

The snake never knew what was coming. Gotcha dove onto the reptile's head from behind, and as the scaly body uncoiled, Anton caught the other end and bit hard, pulling back with all his strength. When the snake was stretched out between them, Gotcha released its head and the long body rose high in the air. Anton leaped back, turning his head to one side, and let go of the tail. The snake sailed through the air, unable to coil itself, and came down with a crack against a rocky outcropping, where it paused for only a moment before slithering with surprising speed in the opposite direction.

“Holy Mo,” said Gotcha. “That's the first time I seen a snake fly.”

The cubs came running then, shouting to their rescuers. “You saved us, you saved us! He was going to bite my brother. Momma said those rattlers are so dangerous. You saved us! Wait till we tell Momma.” As they calmed down and had a good look at Anton and Gotcha, their eyes grew wide.

“What are you?” the bigger one said to Anton. “Are you some kind of ferret?”

“I'm a cat. I'm not from around here. My name is Anton.”

“Oh,” said the cub, leaning against his brother's side. “We're sort of cats, too, I think. Lynxes, Momma says.”

Gotcha looked on, clearly pleased with himself. “I'm Mr. Gotcha,” he said. “You tell your momma it was me and Mr. Anton here what watched over you while you was waitin' on her.”

“We'll tell her,” they said together. “She'll be back soon.”

Gotcha gave Anton a look of mild alarm. “We best be goin', right, Mr. Anton?”

Anton took the hint. “Right, Mr. Gotcha,” he said. “You kits be careful now.”

At that moment a ferocious scream rang out in the distance. Anton's fur stood along his spine. In the cloudy moonlight he made out the figure of a creature, cat-like but three times as big as he was, topping a rocky rise and streaking toward them with alarming speed.

“Is that . . .?” Anton began.

“That's the momma,” cried Gotcha. “Run, Mr. Anton!”

The pair sprang away from the cubs and raced across the clearing toward the tall grass beyond the stream. Anton had always thought of himself as a fast runner, but the momma lynx closed the distance in seconds. She snarled furiously, almost on top of them as they burst into the line of grass. Gotcha ran a few yards behind, and Anton heard the snap of jaws and a yip from the ferret as they scrambled blindly through the brush.

“Gotcha!” called Anton as he ran. “You okay?”

“Still here!” panted Gotcha from somewhere nearby. “But we ain't gonna outrun her, Anton.”

“Head for the tracks!” yelled Anton, hoping that the human buildings and smells would turn the lynx away. They swerved and the train station loomed ahead, and at last the sounds of pursuit faded. The mother lynx had let them go. They stopped near some spindly shrubs, leaning to catch their breath.

“Whoo-ee, that was right close,” said Gotcha, examining his backside where the lynx had grazed him with her teeth.

“Too close,” said Anton, shaking his head, though the sight of the huge wild cat had been briefly thrilling.

“Never underestimate a momma,” said Gotcha. “My own was tough as nails, just like that, always protectin' her kits.”

Anton nodded, thinking of Sonya far away across the land and sea, taking care of his little brothers and sisters. He wondered if she'd be surprised to hear that her sons had managed to lose each other in a strange world, once again.

CHAPTER 9

Wild Ride

T
he prairie dogs came out of their mounds long before Cecil was willing to climb down from the tree.

“Come on!” called Jojo, sitting on his hind legs and peering up at Cecil. “It's fine!”

Doesn't look fine to me,
Cecil thought, still clinging to the branch. The herd of animals had poured across the plain in enormous numbers, their hooves pounding the grasses flat as they came, running roughshod over rocks and shrubs and even the prairie dog holes until finally slowing to a booming trot. The front edge of the herd crowded around the pond, slurping noisily, and Cecil had a good view of the monstrous beasts.

He'd seen cows and he'd seen horses, but these were bigger than either—wide bodies covered in shaggy brown coats, tall as a human at the shoulders, with split hooves that could crush a cat. But the oddest thing about them was their heads. Long and bearded, with pointed horns on top and wide black nostrils near the bottom, their giant faces looked vaguely skeptical, mostly because of the camouflaged brown eyes on either side, half-closed, reserved.

From his tree perch, the herd filled Cecil's vision like a dark ocean before him, rippling as the creatures grazed and scuffled.
How will I get out of here?
he wondered. But the prairie dogs had ventured from their holes as soon as the stampeding had ended, resuming their tasks as if there were no hulking creatures strolling nearby.

Jojo tried again. “Seriously, Cecil, come down.” He gestured with a paw. “They're called
bison,
and they don't eat us. You just have to keep out from underhoof.”

If the bison were curious about why Jojo was yelling, they didn't show it—none even glanced Cecil's way. Cecil sighed and began to climb slowly down the tree trunk, tail first. At the bottom he paused and then slunk quickly between the meandering beasts to the prairie dog town. Jojo was in the middle of things, helping with the repairs, showing the pups how to shore up the tunnels once again. The pups were more interested in playing, some riding on others' backs over the mounds and squeaking joyfully,
Yee ha!

Cecil sat nearby, cleaning sticky sap off of his fur, and watched the lumbering bison take huge mouthfuls of grass, chew patiently, and swallow it down.
Maybe not cat eaters,
he thought,
though probably cat stompers
. He gazed toward the rails in the distance and saw a straight open line like a vein through the throng—the big brutes seemed to avoid the train rails altogether.

“I guess I should get going,” Cecil said to Jojo. “I'll stay on the tracks when I walk.”

The prairie dog yipped instructions to the pups and turned to Cecil. “You ought to talk to some of the bison before you go,” he said, pulling Cecil to one side as a small calf, still bigger than they were, scampered past.

“Talk to them?” asked Cecil. “Why?”

“They travel far and wide, move across the plains quickly when they want to. They see a lot—maybe they'd know something about your brother.”

“But . . .” Cecil hesitated, looking up at the huge horned faces.

Jojo smiled. “They're nicer than they look. Kind of quiet, though. They are beasts of very few words.”

“Hmmm,” said Cecil. He was doubtful, but he spotted two or three bison grazing a little apart from the herd and carefully made his way toward them.

“Hello,” Cecil said as he approached. The bison continued chewing. Cecil stepped around to face the largest one directly and looked up at its massive hairy head.

“Hi, my name is Cecil,” he tried again, a little louder.

The bison stopped chewing and fixed his mud-colored eyes on Cecil.

“Skunk,” it said flatly. Its deep voice thudded like a ship's hull hitting rocks.

Cecil shook his head. “No, I'm not a skunk. I'm a cat.”

The bison snorted, sending up dust. “Skunk.”

“I'm a . . . a
small
cat, and I'm traveling to find my brother Anton, who is gray and even smaller than me.”
This is hopeless,
Cecil thought. “What's your name?”

The bison ripped up a strip of prairie grass and chewed it slowly. “Dirk,” he said finally. The two bison on either side of him swung their heads in Cecil's direction as if the question had been meant for them as well.

“Hank,” said one.

“Chuck,” said the other.

“Pleased to meet you all,” said Cecil politely. “Do any of you know how far it is to the next town?”

Dirk continued munching on grass and slid his eyes over the prairie, as if considering.

Hank stepped closer—
thud, thud
. “Far,” he said.

Cecil sighed. “That's what I thought. I got all the way out here on the train, but now I guess I'll have to walk . . .” He tipped his head toward the tracks on their raised ridge to show what he meant.

Dirk's eyes flew from half-closed to three-quarters open. Chuck stamped one hoof, hard.
Thunk
. Cecil sprang back.

“Pusher!” said Chuck.

“Crusher!” added Hank.

Dirk shook his great head grimly. “Danger.”

Cecil looked from one to the other of them, trying to make sense of it. “Do you mean that the train is dangerous?”

The bison all stared at him as if his question was remarkably dumb.

“Do you mean that the train sometimes runs into the bison?” Cecil ventured.

Hank snorted impatiently. Cecil continued under their glare. “And that's why you stay away from the rails?”

Dirk shifted his considerable weight and leaned toward Cecil. “Bingo.”

So they avoid the trains,
thought Cecil.
But surely they must know where they go, and how far
. A wild idea began to form in his mind. He remembered how terrifyingly fast they had come in with all the noise, dust, and mayhem. It was chaotic and pulse-quickening, a crazy speeding horde. Jojo had said the bison covered a lot of ground, and Cecil really could use a lift.

“So, Dirk,” said Cecil conversationally, sidling up as close as he dared. “When you guys decide to move out again, how about giving me a ride to the next town?”

“Ride?” said Dirk, still huffing from the talk of the train.

“On your back, I mean.” Cecil smiled and gave Dirk a wink. “I'm as light as a feather.”

Dirk shook his head slowly. “Skunk,” he snorted.

“No, I'm a—” began Cecil.

“Stink,” Dirk insisted, a little louder.

“I smell fine,” Cecil protested, moving closer. “Here, smell me.”

Dirk planted his hooves, sending up a plume of dust. “Stay,” he warned, and lowered his great head.

Cecil skittered sideways, tail up and ears pricked. “Okay, okay!” he said quickly. “No ride, I get it.” He backed up a few more feet to a safe distance and sat down cautiously, eyeing Dirk's sharp horns. Bison were quirky, and he sure didn't want to be in the path of an angry one.

The bison seemed to lose interest in Cecil and moved toward fresh patches of grass. Dirk stepped over to a shallow, dusty spot in the ground, bent his knees and tipped over into the dirt—
whump.
He rolled on his back from side to side, grinding the dirt into his shaggy coat and kicking his hooves in the air.

Cecil was startled by the sheer energy of the maneuver. “What's he doing?” he asked Chuck.

Chuck looked over. “Itchy,” he said.

Of course,
Cecil thought.
I do that myself sometimes. Though not in the dirt
.
It'll take him hours to clean that
. Cecil eyed Dirk's coat with distaste, and then another idea took hold.
Itchy, huh? Skunk, my whiskers. I'll show him what a feline can do.
He walked closer to the wallowing Dirk and waited until the beast paused on one huge side, his eyes rolling skyward. Cecil moved around behind him, popped out his claws, and, stretching up on his back legs, carefully placed his front paws on Dirk's back and began to scratch.

Dirk's enormous torso stiffened for a moment, and Cecil tensed to spring away if the beast suddenly rolled toward him. But Dirk relaxed against the ground. The bison closed his eyes and made deep chuffing sounds that Cecil could feel under his paws, like a purring kitten the size of a horse-cart. Cecil padded and scratched the shaggy expanse until he grew tired, and then sat back. Dirk rolled up to standing and gazed at Cecil with newfound admiration.

“Cat!” he said.

Cecil nodded and shook some of the dust from his own fur. “Cat. You got it.” He waited for Dirk's appreciation to turn into an offer of help, but the bison continued to stare at him blankly, the hair of his beard tossing in the prairie wind.

Cecil sighed. “Well this has been great fun,” he said, standing to go. “But I'll be taking my leave of you fine fellows now.”

Hank and Chuck nodded in a leisurely way, tearing more bunches of prairie grass up by the roots, but Dirk shifted his stance—
thud, thud
—to face Cecil. “Leave,” Dirk said heavily. Behind him the herd undulated gently, swelling and curling along the far edges.

“Yep,” said Cecil, edging back a few paces. His plan to charm his way into a ride had gone nowhere, and now the bison were actually telling him to get out.
I must be losing my touch,
he thought glumly.

Dirk raised his mammoth head high into the breeze, looking, it seemed to Cecil, in the direction of the setting sun. “Go,” he said, and snorted once.

“I'm going, all right?”
Great cats,
thought Cecil,
he can't get rid of me soon enough
. “I'm gone.” He turned and trotted off, weaving carefully between the bison, who seemed to have begun to stroll in the same direction and all together. He was past the pond and headed for the rails when he heard a determined plonking behind him, and turned to find Dirk following in his path. Cecil's heart jumped in his chest—was the bison chasing him now? Behind Dirk the herd was beginning to flow, the center middle surging ahead while the flanks curved away behind, all of the animals picking up speed.

Dirk reached Cecil and loomed over him. “Cat!” he boomed.

“Yes?” Cecil cringed in the creature's shadow.

“Go!” Dirk rumbled.

“I'm trying to!” said Cecil, exasperated.

“Ride!” said Dirk. He turned toward the herd and took a step or two, then glanced back.

Cecil's mouth hung open. Was Dirk really offering a ride? “You mean it?” He looked at Dirk's mellow brown eyes, calm and dignified beneath his curved, pointy horns.

Dirk raised one back hoof and brought it down hard.
Stomp.
“Now,” he said.

Cecil jumped. “Of course!” he spluttered. “Right, let's go!” With a leaping bound he pulled himself up to Dirk's back and forward to the hump above his shoulders. He flattened down and held on. Dirk took a couple of trotting steps and then launched into a canter, all muscle and power as he joined his fellow bison, swerving and jostling in the fray. Cecil dug in with his claws to stay on, squinting through the billowing dust.

“Ouch,” said Dirk evenly.

“Sorry!” shouted Cecil. He loosened his grip slightly, but only slightly, as all around Dirk ran thundering bison, large and small. Dirt was already in Cecil's mouth and eyes, but soon he got a feel for the rolling motion and relaxed a little. This was faster than a ship, maybe faster than the train. It was certainly more exciting than both, and possibly the most dangerous ride of them all. One slip and he'd be crushed under the stampeding hooves. He didn't know when they'd stop or how he'd get off, but he would worry about that later.

For now he was Cecil, small cat from the ocean, riding across the plains on the back of a bison.
Yee ha!

As Anton and Gotcha made their way back across the deep grass, the stars faded overhead and the sky paled. Gotcha yawned once, then again, opening his black mouth wide and showing all his sharp teeth. “It's gettin' on to my bedtime,” he said. “I'll see you back to them tracks and head for the sack.”