The Preposterous Adventures of Swimmer (7 page)

“Yes, and he should have been back hours ago. Have you seen him?”

Penny almost dropped the saw. “You—you mean he hasn't been here all day?”

“No, ding blatt it.” Swimmer's voice was a dismal croak. “Something's happened.”

She sawed in silence for a while. Then, “Do—do you s'pose he's in trouble 'cause he's black?”

“Huh? What difference does that make?”

“Well, some folks up here don't like black people. I've known lots of black people—well, seven or eight, anyway—and I thought they were nice. But Mr. Sykes hates them.”

“Anybody that could hate Clarence is a—a skrink and a blatthead,” Swimmer said emphatically.

He was about to remark that most of the human tribe, from the way they acted, didn't seem to have frog sense. But before he could voice his opinion, several things happened almost at once.

First, with a little cry of relief, Penny managed to cut through the link. It released the loop of chain about his neck, and she immediately began tugging at the rest of the harness, trying to pull it back over his body. He was struggling to get out of it when he felt a sharp twinge of uneasiness and became aware of warnings from both Willow and Ripple.

“Somebody's coming!” he gasped and struggled frantically to free himself. The harness came off, and Penny, at the sudden sound of voices, snatched it up and flung it as far as she could into the tangle on the other side of the tree.

It had been Swimmer's intention to carry the bell and harness far back into the den, where no one would be likely to find it, but it was too late for that now. He dove and followed Willow and Ripple into their hiding place. A few seconds later he was at his post in the limb, watching Weaver Sykes and his father approach.

In Weaver's hands, in place of his gun, were a pitchfork and a slender pole. Grady Sykes carried a large, crudely fashioned dip net made of a sapling split at the end to spread a few feet of chicken wire. He was lean like Weaver, but with a grim, square face and a twisted slit of a mouth that drooped on one side. This lower corner of his mouth was stained with tobacco juice that had dripped down to the front of his overalls.

The two paused under the tree, arguing over the best place to begin the search, and the proper way of netting a tomfool otter with a silver bell around its neck. Swimmer, peering down at the net, wondered if they expected him to be accommodating enough to crawl into the silly thing, or perhaps allow himself to be stabbed and held by the pitchfork.

Grady Sykes stepped farther around the tree, and saw Penny for the first time. He spat angrily.

“Ain't I done told you to stay away from down here?”

“B-but I just wanted to watch—”

“You git back to the house! Wait—what you got in that bag?”

“It—it's just some things I—”

With his free hand Grady Sykes snatched the paper bag from her. He tried to shake it open, failed, then turned it over and shook its contents on the ground.

Suddenly he swore. “So
you
're the one took my pliers! An' the hacksaw! What d'you think you're doin' down here with them tools?”

Penny swallowed. When she failed to speak, he dropped the net and seized her by the shoulder. His other hand swung back to strike. “You're up to something no good. What is it, girl? Answer me, dang blast you!”

Swimmer didn't see Clarence approach, or even hear him. But all at once Clarence was there, complete with hiking staff, knapsack, sleeping bag, and a familiar cloth sack that had always been used for carrying tinned fish.

“Hold it!” Clarence ordered quietly. “Don't you hit that girl.”

Grady Sykes jerked around. He took one look at Clarence, and his jaws knotted. He spat again.

“I don't allow your kind around here. Git your danged self off'n my property!”

“This is not your property,” Clarence said patiently. “It happens to be a wildlife refuge area, and I have a permit to be on it. Have you?”

The reply infuriated Grady Sykes. “I done told you to git off,” he said dangerously. “An' I ain't takin' no more back talk off'n you.” Abruptly he grabbed the pitchfork from Weaver and swung it hard at Clarence. “
Now move!
”

Clarence moved. But all he did was drop the bag and bring the hiking staff up to a bayonet defense position. To Swimmer it was evident that Clarence was a past master at this sort of thing and probably had taught it to countless recruits. Two quick taps and the pitchfork was sent flying into the forest.

Any further trouble was interrupted by the short baying of a hound upstream. Following it came a shout, and the muffled sound of men's voices in the distance.

The hound appeared first. It was straining at a leash, the end of which was held by a tall, shambling man in a dirty, brown jacket and mud-stained boots.

The dog was new—a different beast entirely than the one he remembered. But the man was the same.

At the first hated sight and scent of the man, even before he saw the snake-cold eyes in the swarthy face, Swimmer felt the shock of awful recognition.

Below, hired to come and catch him once again, was the trapper who had killed his mother and sold his sister and himself to Dr. Hoffman.

6

He Is in a Spot

A
t the sight of his enemy, the human creature he hated more than anything on earth, Swimmer's lips drew back in a snarl. He trembled. The trembling began in hate but ended in a sudden feeling of helplessness that slowly turned to fear.

Nothing would ever wipe out the hate, but he had no thought of revenge. The way things were, revenge was impossible. He would be lucky, in fact, if the den was not discovered. Tattle had suspected it, and Clarence had guessed it right away. If Snake Eyes found it—he never thought of the trapper by any other name—Willow and Ripple would be in mortal danger.

Below him Grady Sykes had turned his back on Clarence and was directing his anger at Snake Eyes. He cursed and spat out, “If it's that fool otter you're after, just keep agoin'! This here's private property. I aim to do all the otter-catching done around here!”

“You aimin' to do it with that?” The trapper growled and kicked contemptuously at the chicken wire net. “Don't bug me, mister. Save it for Mr. Tippet.”

In sudden surprise, Clarence exclaimed, “Don't tell me Mr. Tippet is here!”

“He's here,” the trapper muttered in his grating voice. “Right behind me somewhere.” He looked hard at Clarence and rubbed grimy knuckles over an unshaven jaw. “Who d'ya think you are?”

“I'm Clarence Green. I've been taking care of Swimmer ever since Doc Hoffman got him.”

“I'll be jugged!” Then, suspiciously, “I don't figger this. How come you happened to git here ahead o' me an' my dog?”

Before Clarence could explain, Mr. Tippet and two other men came into view. One, roughly dressed and burdened with a heavy pack, was obviously the trapper's helper. The other, who carried a camera, had the familiar look of a newsman. But it was upon the elegant and self-important little Mr. Tippet that Swimmer turned his unhappy attention.

At the first mention of Mr. Tippet's name, his sinking spirits had taken a sharper tumble. Mr. Tippet was Doc Hoffman's front man. And wherever the front man was to be seen, it was a safe bet that old Doc himself wasn't very far away.

As he reached the tree, Mr. Tippet, a living picture of what the well-dressed man should wear in the woods, quickly unlimbered a walkie-talkie he was carrying and went straight to the trapper.

“What's the score, Jules?” he demanded. His edged voice was sharper than usual, for he was out of breath. Swimmer knew he detested the woods and everything in it. “Have you found him yet? Is he here?”

“He's here somewhere,” Snake Eyes answered. “I ain't found him yet, but I will. He ain't apt to go much farther.”

“You're sure of that? What's to keep him from going on downstream?”

“Pshaw, he's come this far only because he's lookin' for food an' a place to hide. He ain't doin' no more travelin' with a bad leg.”

“Good Lord, is he injured?”

“I thought the critter was from the first. Now I've found enough sign to be sure of it. I think he's got a busted leg.”

“Oh, dear me!” Mr. Tippet exclaimed and brought the walkie-talkie closer to his face. “A broken leg! Did you hear that, Dr. Hoffman?”

“I heard it,” came the slightly muffled but all-too-familiar voice from the speaker. “Tippet, ask Jules if there's a chance of locating Swimmer before dark.”

“I ain't sure,” growled Snake Eyes. “It depends on how far down the creek the critter went before he found himself a hole. There's a heap o' holes around here. A smart critter like that, he's liable to come all the way back—”

He was suddenly interrupted by Penny, who had been standing silently to one side ever since the arrival of Clarence, nervously biting her lip. “There—there's a beaver pond downstream,” she said brightly. “If—if Swimmer's lame, wouldn't he go to a place like that? I mean, it would be so easy for him to catch frogs and things there …”

“Mebbe,” the trapper muttered. “We'll look it over.” He turned to the straining hound, a huge black ungainly beast of uncertain mixtures, and clicked his tongue. “Go find 'im, Devil!”

It was only now, as the trapper and his helper were hurrying away, that Mr. Tippet became aware of Clarence for the first time.

He stared and abruptly burst out, “My word! How did you get here? You'd better explain yourself, Clarence!”

Clarence said politely, “I sort of followed my nose here, Mr. Tippet.”

“Followed your nose? Nonsense! You're not a hound!”

“Oh, the Forest Service helped me, sir. And I spent some time studying the creeks. This seemed the most likely area. Trouble is, sir, that the gentleman yonder, Mr. Sykes—he has the trout farm you probably saw on the road—feels that we're trespassing—”

“You're danged right you're trespassing!” Grady Sykes sputtered wrathfully. “An' if that fool varmint's found around here, I'm claiming part of the reward.”

“I've never heard such drivel!” Mr. Tippet snapped, eyeing him sternly. “My good man, I happen to have a map that shows all this land along the creek to be part of a wildlife refuge area. I find it very strange that you would pretend to claim it. You'd better tell me why.”

There was a moment's silence. Suddenly Penny, white-faced but defiant, cried, “I'll tell you why! It—it's because he hates otters, and—and he's got traps set all over the place!”

“Traps?” Mr. Tippet echoed.

“Traps!” said Clarence hoarsely. “Good Lord!”

“Danged varmints!” Grady Sykes muttered. “That's all them otters are. A man's got a right …” All at once, with a baleful look at Penny, he snatched up a stick and started toward her. “I'll learn you to watch your tongue, you worthless, no-account …”

As Penny darted away, the newsman, who had silently been taking pictures all the while, quickly turned his camera upon them. Penny dodged behind Clarence, and Grady Sykes stopped abruptly. At the same moment a blast of sound came from Mr. Tippet's walkie-talkie.

“
Traps!
” roared that famous voice. “Do something, Tippet! Get rid of the things! If Swimmer is harmed in any way by a trap, I'll sue that rascal for everything he's got. I'll wreck him! Do you hear me, Tippet?”

“I hear you, sir.” Instantly Mr. Tippet pointed a stern finger at the owner of the trout farm. “And I trust
you
heard it, Sykes. Dr. Hoffman is not a man to be trifled with. If he says he'll wreck you, he will. I want all those traps accounted for. How many are there?”

Grady Sykes cursed. “That's my business!”

The newsman said, “Don't be a fool. If the game warden finds out about those traps, it'll cost you plenty. And I've just taken some pictures that won't make you look very good in court. How many traps did you set out around here?”

Penny said, “He had eight to start with.”

“Then get them, Sykes,” Mr. Tippet ordered. “And get them fast, or you'll learn what trouble is!”

Grady Sykes started grimly back up the creek, with Weaver shuffling angrily at his heels. Swimmer, watching them go, could feel the fury in them, and he was aware of Clarence's uneasiness.

Clarence said to Penny, “You were very brave to tell us what you did. But I hate to think how those people will act when you go home this evening.”

“Oh, I'll tough it out, somehow. I always have. And Mrs. Sykes, she—she's not too bad. I mean, she licks me once in a while, but as long as I'm in the house she won't let the others do it.”

“Humph!” Clarence grunted. “Such nice folks!” He glanced at Mr. Tippet and said quietly, “That was an awfully big reward Doc offered. It sort of threw everybody around here.”

Mr. Tippet carefully switched off his walkie-talkie, and said, “I feel the reward was excessive, but Dr. Hoffman was terribly upset. He was beside himself, literally beside himself. In fact, Clarence, he was roaring—and I've never heard Dr. Hoffman roar before. The truth is, he thinks more of Swimmer than he does of anything on earth.”

Up at his peephole Swimmer almost said “Phooey,” but managed to control himself. The only thing old Doc really cared about was being the great Dr. Hoffman.

“So naturally,” Mr. Tippet went on, “his first thought was to get as many people as possible out searching. Therefore the large reward. We had no idea Jules would be able to trail him so easily.”

“Well, now that Swimmer's practically found,” said Clarence, “don't you think it would be a good thing to cancel the reward? I mean, people are starting to swarm through the woods with everything from clubs to pitchforks. He's already hurt, and if some idiot happens to stumble over him before we do …”