The Preposterous Adventures of Swimmer

by Alexander Key

  Penny did not appear that morning, nor did Clarence return. Swimmer’s uneasiness grew. According to his figuring—and he had a flawless sense of time to go with his abhorred training in mathematics—Clarence should have been back before the sun was three hours high. That was making all sorts of allowances, like an extra fifteen minutes to climb to the county road that went past the trout farm, plus an extra half hour to hike to the bridge.

  But when Clarence did not appear by noon, Swimmer twisted worriedly in his harness and came to an unhappy conclusion: The delay was caused by something unforeseen and decidedly unpleasant.

  It was less than an hour later that a new feeling of danger sent him up to keep watch at his peephole. He was hardly settled when Willow and her daughter slipped back into the den with the news that several young humans and a dog were approaching.

  Swimmer almost groaned when he heard a familiar yapping. Presently Tattle dashed past, hard upon a scent. Behind him, carrying his gun, came Weaver Sykes. With him were two gangling youths armed with some sticks, a gunny-sack, and a piece of rope.

  “Yeah, Pa claims all this land down here,” Weaver Sykes was saying as they paused under the tree. “But I reckon he won’t mind your hunting if it’s an otter you’re after—that is, as long as you don’t hunt upstream from here. He wouldn’t like that.”

  “But what about the reward?” the taller youth asked. “If we catch the critter, reckon he’d want us to give ’im part of the money?”

  “Reward? Who said anything about a reward? How much is it?”

  “Well, we heard at church this morning it was twenty thousand dollars. But right off folks figgered that was a mistake, an’ that somebody’d just put the decimal point in the wrong place. They said that more’n likely it was two thousand. But that’s plenty.”

  “Two thousand dollars for a danged dirty fish-stealin’ varmint?” Weaver exclaimed. “Why, anybody who’d pay that is clean out’n his cotton-pickin’ mind!”

  “But, Weaver, it’s a famous otter. They say it even wears a silver harness an’ a bell.”

  “I don’t care what it wears. It’s still a danged varmint an’ it ain’t worth that much.”

  “Shucks, nobody said it was. But you know them rich flatlanders. They’d pay anything for something they want.”

  “Reckon you’re right,” Weaver admitted. “But how come you’re looking here for the varmint? They say it escaped ’way across the ridge on Red Dog Creek.”

  “Aw, there ain’t no fish in Red Dog. An’ the warden says a traveling otter always leaves the lower part of it an’ heads this way.” The youth turned and started down to the water’s edge. “C’mon, Joe. There’s a mess of holes around here. If I poke the critter out, you gotta be ready to bop ’im on the head. You gonna help us, Weaver?”

  “No,” Weaver muttered. “Daggone! Two thousand dollars! I better tell Pa about this.” He moved away suddenly and began to run back the way he had come.

  Tattle returned a moment later, but instead of following Weaver, the dog began leaping about the tree, yapping in a frenzy.

  Oh, blatts! Swimmer thought despairingly. It was my trail he was following all the time. Now, he’s trying to find out if I’m here. That sneaky little hunk of buzzard bait!

  Down at the creek’s edge one of the hunters cried, “Shaddup, you fool dog! You tryin’ to scare everything away?”

  “Mebbe he’s tryin’ to tell us there’s something in the tree,” the other said.

  They waded over and began thrusting their sticks down under the roots. Almost immediately they found the underwater entrance to the den, but the exploring sticks could reach no farther than a rock around which the passageway curved.

  “If anything was here,” grumbled one, “it got scared away earlier.” He pointed to the remains of Clarence’s fire. “Somebody camped there last night. We’d better go on down the creek.”

  The two hurried away. But Tattle remained, yapping, snarling, and finally breaking into an urgent high-pitched barking that could be heard for a great distance.

  At the sound of it Swimmer chilled. As soon as Weaver or his father became aware of that telltale barking, they’d come on the run and there would be real trouble. At the thought of what could happen to Willow and Ripple, his lips drew back in a snarl and the hair began to rise on his neck. He crept down from his perch.

  I must get rid of the nuisance, he told Ripple.

  I will help you, she said instantly.

  Thoughts flashed between them. His bell was the main problem. Because of it he couldn’t make an attack until the last possible instant, when the dog was within easy reach. Nor must they touch the ground and leave a fresh scent for other dogs to find.

  We will make a game of it, she said. I will attract his attention. You do the rest.

  So it became a game. Ripple swam out first and flashed into the current, moving and turning with a grace and speed that no fish could equal. Swimmer followed slowly and crept with the utmost stealth to the edge of a pebbly spot just beyond the largest rock. Here he flattened in the shadow, with only his face above the surface. At a glance he might have been only a part of the rock itself.

  Now Ripple darted in close and spun about in the shallows chirruping gaily. Tattle saw her on the instant, and for a second his mouth hung open as if he could not believe his eyes. Then he dashed down to the pebbly spot, snarling.

  A wiser dog than Tattle, even if he had been twice the size, would have hesitated at the water’s edge and would not have taken another step. For in the water, as Swimmer well knew, an otter is supreme. Nothing could have touched Ripple, so she was entirely without fear as she paused in the shallows and laughed. This infuriated Tattle, and he made the mistake of his life—he sprang into the shallows after her.

  Swimmer had been hoping for this. Instantly, with all the power he could force into his three good legs, he lunged for Tattle’s throat.

  Unfortunately his harness caught on a spur of rock, throwing him off-balance. He missed the throat entirely but was quick enough to sink his teeth into a leg. It was sufficient. Tattle had time only for a frightened shriek before he was jerked down into deep water.

  Swimmer held on grimly and let the swift current carry them downstream. The dog struggled violently at first, then its motions became feeble.

  Suddenly from Ripple, who was circling easily around them, came the thought: Do not kill.

  In Swimmer’s private opinion, Tattle was much too low and contemptible a creature to be allowed to live, and something told him he would regret it if he let the nuisance go. But it was not his nature to kill for the sake of killing. He had subdued his enemy, and that was enough.

  He thrust Tattle to the surface and nudged him over to a gravelbar at the edge of the creek. Choking and half drowned, the dog struggled to rise. Failing, it tremblingly crawled away on its belly.

  Swimmer turned and tried to follow Ripple upstream, but made poor progress until she returned and helped him. They made a game of it, and suddenly it was great fun just to be alive and able to battle the current, and, for a little while, the fact of a broken leg didn’t matter in the least.

  But as they finally surfaced at the flat rock near the den, all the threat of man’s world could be felt again, stronger than ever.

  An anxious Penny was waiting on the rock.

  “What happened?” she asked quickly. “I heard Tattle barking, then he made an awful sound …”

  “Aw, we had to give the scumpy weasel a ducking,” Swimmer admitted. “He wouldn’t shut up. But I don’t think he’ll bother us for a while now.”

  “Oh, dear, I hope not. I haven’t much time. Come close and I’ll try to cut off that harness.” As she spoke she took pliers and a hacksaw from the same bag she had used yesterday and went determinedly to work on one of the shoulder links. “Keep watch, everybody,” she panted. “Scruff’s not with me, and Mr. Sykes is liable to be down here any minute. We just can’t let him catch us.”

  Presently s
he paused a moment and gasped, “Golly, I didn’t know silver was so hard to cut! Looks like I’ll never get it apart.” She went back to work, and added, “Weaver and his pa are making a big dip net to catch you—I mean they think they can catch you with it, only they don’t know anything about otters. Mr. Sykes is so excited over the reward he’s about to bust a seam. Is it really two thousand dollars?”

  “It’s twenty thousand,” Swimmer said gloomily.

  “Twenty thousand!” she gasped. “But—but—I can’t believe—”

  “Aw, fiffle, what’s twenty thousand? Don’t you think I’m worth more?”

  “But of course you are! If you want to look at it that way, I mean. Only I can’t. There’s something so scary and awful about money, and the way it can make nice things ugly. Was it Mr. Green—Clarence—who told you about the reward?”

  “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

  At 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 o
f 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!”