Mr. Chickee's Messy Mission (16 page)

He might as well have been talking to himself. Russell was busy cooing at Rodney Rodent, who was whining right back at him.

Mr. Bayliss said, “Sheesh, what an embarrassment. And to think I thought you might have been one of the Old Souls.

“I hate to have to break up this little lovefest, but we're all here for one reason and one reason alone. We've got to track down and destroy the Ursa Theodora-Saura. If I have anything to say about it, he's terrorized and pillaged his last village here in the North Country.”

Russell said, “What's a Ursa Theodora-Saura?”

“It's like the pit bull of bears. A creature so ferocious that even rocks and trees get up and run when it comes near. Hop in the sled, we'll talk about it as we go. All the signs
tell me he's trapped in a very small area and after we find out where, it's going to be either him or me, or now that you're here, it's going to be either him or
us
.”

“Well, Mr. Bayliss, that's gonna be a problem…” Russell began edging back toward the door that led from Buster B. Bayliss County to Ourside.

“Mummy and Daddy have told me never to take rides from strangers, and even though you
are
my favorite author, you still seem kind of strange.”

Russell pointed at his Oops-a-Daisy and said, “Besides, Madam President will kill me if I waste any time in here.”

He patted Rodney Rodent on the head and said, “I've already done what I was supposed to do, I rescued my dog, so me and Rod-Rode are gonna have to—”

“Oh, no you don't, buckaroo, I've been chasing that Ursa Theodora-Saura with that team of dogs for six years. Now I'm this close to ending the fear and horror he's caused, and no silly Oops-a-Daisy is going to stop me—stop
us
from completing this mission.

“Nothing is.”

Before Russell could think of another excuse, Buster B. Bayliss snatched him by the collar and plopped him into the back of the sled. Ahjah helicoptered himself to the back of the sled, dropped down onto his rear legs and waited for the signal to push.

Mr. Bayliss hollered, “Get-up-uh, get on up!” then whistled. The dogs leapt to their feet and began running, Ahjah started pushing, and it was like a jet's afterburners kicked in as the sled nearly flew back into the land of ice and cold!

Russell shivered and thought, “I sure wish I'd brought Richelle's friend Sweetie, the Great Morose Fire-Spewing Clabbernabber, and some cans of Boston baked beans. This place could really use a couple of good farts to warm it …,” but just then the cold hit him hard, and as any of you who have ever been suddenly dumped in the cold know, talking about a gas-passing dragon is about the last thing you want to do when you're worried about being turned into an icicle!

Trapped in Buster B. Bayliss County!

T
HE SLED HADN'T GONE
twenty frozen feet when Buster B. Bayliss shouted, “Pull a lefty, my hefties!” and the lead dog veered sharply to the left, heading back into the warm street.

Once the author pulled the sled to a stop, he said, “Look, young man, I've had a change of heart. A brother's got to do what a brother's got to do, and sometimes that
in
-volves admitting when you've done something wrong and apologizing. So I'm standing up to my obligation and I'm saying I'm terribly sorry I snatched you into the blizzard the way I just did. That was plain old wrong.”

Russell hopped out of the sled and said, “Whew! Thank you, sir, no hard feelings. I'll just take Rodney Rodent and head back to Richie-Rich and Bucko and we can get started on their missions and—”

Buster B. Bayliss said, “Ooh, big misunderstanding. I'm apologizing for snatching you into the blizzard
the way I did
, not for snatching you into the blizzard.”

Russell sounded just like someone else we all know when he said, “Huh? I don't get it.”

“I'm sorry for snatching you into the blizzard the way I did,
unprepared
. I've searched so long and hard for that wretched Ursa Theodora-Saura that I've got to admit I forgot one of the most important rules for living out here in the wilderness: Always be prepared. I simply forgot your blood isn't used to that snow. So now we'll head back to my summer camp to hunt you up some protective clothing.”

Buster B. Bayliss's voice suddenly changed. A sadness was there because he knew the time was very close when he'd have to do something he really didn't want to. Something that went against his very nature. Something he'd been dreading since he'd started hunting the Ursa Theodora-Saura. Something he knew could only end in one tragic way.

He was going to have to kill … or be killed.

His eyes looked toward the winter wall and seemed to peer through the snow. He almost whispered, “Yes, we'll get you some clothes.”

He sounded even sadder when he said, “And I'll have to bring
it
out.”

His dark brown eyes bored even deeper into the snow and crinkled with sorrow. (And if your eyes have ever crinkled, you know how much that hurts!)

He said, “Now
it's
the only thing that can end this reign of terror.”

Russell couldn't help himself, a giant GULP! jumped from his throat.

Buster B. Bayliss pulled Russell behind him into the forest.

Deep into the woods.

“Wow!” Russell said. “This is so coo—”

That was all he got out before the North Country mosquitoes discovered him. One second he was breathing in humid, fecund forest air and the next second he was breathing in an army of bloodsuckers.

His nostrils and his mouth and his ears were instantly filled; it was like he was swimming in a lake of them. In two seconds Russell gained eighty-five pounds. Eighty-five pounds of slurping, hungry, winged little devils.

Buster B. Bayliss swung around, and looking through a million mosquito wings, Russell could see he'd lit a small coffee can filled with leaves. The smoke from the burning dried leaves washed over Russ and, just like that, the bugs left him alone.

“Sorry, little buckaroo, I've been over on the cold side for so long it had completely slipped my mind that it was mosquito season over here in the warm side.”

Russell blew a long, sticky, wet, squirming tube of mosquitoes out of the left side of his nose, then another one out of the right side. It took him five crunchy chews and two huge swallows to get down the bunch that had flown into his mouth.

Buster B. Bayliss looked at the writhing, wriggling, twisting, jiggling, moist tubes of mosquitoes on the ground and the way Russell was licking his lips, and an expression of disgust washed over his face.

Russell said, “Yum! What time of year is mos-kwee-toe season?”

“Up here it generally runs from about December fifteenth of one year to December fourteenth of the next. But don't worry, once you get some of this smoke on you, they have no interest in biting anymore.”

“Hmmm,” Russell said, “they taste kind of sweet. Sweet and tangy at the same time. But they could use a little salt.”

Mr. Bayliss looked to the sky and muttered, “Please forgive me for thinking this kid was an Old Soul.”

Russell said, “Mr. Bayliss, those mos-kwee-toes are real pains when they get in my ears and nose, but is there any way I can get them to fly straight into my mouth?”

Buster B. Bayliss nearly choked. “
What
?”

He took his fake-bearskin mitten and gave Russell a good pop on the back of his head.

“Listen, buckaroo, if you don't quit this chatter-munk chattering and start concentrating on what we've got to do, I'll wear you out with this mitten!”

Russell thought, “Sheesh, for a favorite author he sure is kind of grouchy.”

The two walked through the woods in silence. For three hours they trudged down old game trails and along dried riverbeds and through thicket after thicket of forest. while
Buster B. Bayliss's educated eyes saw much, saw the great struggles of nature being played out, saw a multitude of near-invisible hidden animals carefully eyeing them, trying to assess if they were a danger, Russell's eyes saw two things only: Mr. Bayliss's back and the cloud of mosquitoes that still followed them just out of the reach of the smoke.

Russell knew that for some strange reason Mr. B. had been on the verge of throwing up when he saw Russ chew the scrumptious mosquitoes, and it's one of those annoying things about adults that anything you do that makes them gag, they'll force you to stop doing, so he was being very careful not to let the great outdoorsman see that every time Buster B. Bayliss turned his back or disappeared behind a tree for a second, Russell would reach back and grab a handful of the mosquitoes and stuff them into his mouth.

The
real
reason Russell wasn't talking was because he'd been properly raised by his parents and knew it was wrong to speak when his mouth was full. To tell the truth he
was
dying to say something, but the bugs were sooo good!

The main thing Russell wanted to say to Mr. Bayliss was “Are we there yet?”

He began slowing down, and Buster B. Bayliss thought, “I wonder why they'd send a soft little city boy to help me?” But the real reason Russell was lagging was because he'd eaten about thirty pounds of mosquitoes! And how fast do you think
you
could walk behind an author with that many bugs in your belly? Not very.

Much to Russell's relief, Mr. B. finally said, “There she is. There's home. Home.”

Buster B. Bayliss's voice echoed what was in his heart. It echoed the thought he couldn't force away. The thought that asked if this would be the last time he'd see this place. If maybe, after the great battle that was soon to happen, he'd never be able to come here again, he'd never be able to
be
again. If he too would finally know what it was like to be on the losing end of the ultimate kill-or-be-killed battle.

Russell looked into the valley.

His breath caught in his throat (or maybe a mosquito got a bite in on the way down; whatever it was, he stopped breathing for a second) when he saw how beautiful the author's home was.

It looked like a wallpaper picture on a computer.

A large log cabin sat in a clearing on a small rise. A pair of snowshoes, a set of antlers and a harness like the one the sled dogs had been attached to hung on the side of the cabin. Underneath the only window on the front of the cabin was an upside-down sled about the same size as the one Rodney Rodent had been pushing.

There was a rocking chair and table next to the front door. Right behind the cabin was another rocking chair and table, a bull's-eye target and a clothesline. About a mile farther back was a 125-foot waterfall! (Nowhere near as impressive as the 250-foot Kearsley Dam waterfall that Steven and Zoopy had jumped off of, but not bad.)

Even from this distance Russell could hear the soothing, soft sound of water churning on rocks.

He said, “Wow! That's so coo—”

Buster B. Bayliss interrupted by almost whispering,

“
Home
. Let's get this started.” He began trudging down the path leading to the cabin.

Russell snatched a handful of mosquitoes and followed. He chewed, looked at his Oops-a-Daisy, swallowed and thought, “Man! Madam President is probably real worried about me. But escaping from Buster B. Bayliss and getting Rodney Rodent back shouldn't take more than a couple of hours, I'll be outta here in no time at all!”

If that's what you're counting on, Russell Braithewaite Woods, sorry 'bout your luck!

The only furniture in the cabin was a chair, a table with a big white bowl on it and a large wooden box tucked in one corner.

“Uh-oh, Mr. B., looks like some B-and-E kids cleaned you out!”

“Some who?”

“Breaking-and-entering guys. It looks like they robbed all your stuff.”

Buster B. Bayliss looked around the cabin. “Nothing's missing. I talk simple and I live simple. Everything needed is right here.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“Don't you ever go to the bathroom?”

“
What
?”

“You said you've got everything, but I don't see a bathroom in here.”

Buster B. Bayliss shook his head. “Thirty feet behind the cabin, a perfectly good hole.”

Russell didn't see what a hole had to do with a bathroom, but there were a lot of other things missing too.

“Where's your bed?”

“I sleep under the stars.”

“And your stove and your fridge and your television and your DVD player and your radio and your—”

Buster B. Bayliss put his hand to his ear again and said, “Hold on a minute …”

Russell, being a great detective, knew what was going to happen next, so he was prepared when the fake-bearskin mitten popped the back of his head.

“Oops!” Russell said. “I guess you were hearing a chattermunk, huh?”

“Enough talk. Time to turn in. Up early tomorrow.”

Russell said, “Uh, Mr. Bayliss, I hate to burp your bubble but …”

He stopped and thought for a second. “Hmmm, if Mr. B. falls asleep, I'll be able to escape! I'll just pretend I'm snoozing, grab Rodney Rodent and leave!”

Russell gave a big fake yawn and said, “Man! I'm really, really sleepy.”