by Betsy Byars
Varmint stew, she thought again. It was one of her favorite dishes. Her mouth watered.
Mad Mary had not smiled in ten years. She hadn’t seen anything to smile at. The big difference between animals and people, she had once read, is that people can laugh. Well, then, that meant she was more like an animal. It wasn’t likely she would ever smile again, much less laugh.
Still, the lines around her eyes eased slightly at the thought of her supper.
There was a roll of thunder, and Mad Mary glanced up at the sky. The clouds overhead were thunder-gray. In the west flashes of lightning lit up the clouds.
Mad Mary watched and then shrugged the bag higher on her shoulder. She was an expert on local weather. She lived with it day and night.
The smell of wild onions was in the air. It overpowered the smell of rain.
She glanced again at the sky. She took another deep breath of onion air. Onions fresh from the ground were the best perfume a person could want.
Then she made her decision. To herself she muttered, “I reckon I got just enough time to gather some blackberries.”
Wielding her cane, she headed in that direction.
CHAPTER 8
Prob-lem
“And nobody’s seen Junior?” Vicki Blossom said for the third time. Her eyes swept around the table.
Maggie answered. “I told you, Mom. The last time I saw him he was in the barn, under the tarp.”
“Me too,” said Vern.
“I ain’t seen him since breakfast,” Pap said.
The Blossom family was at supper. They had been answering this same question since the meal started, but like a detective hoping for a new clue, Vicki Blossom kept asking it.
Now there came a long silence. Vicki Blossom looked out the window. Her hand was pressed against her mouth as if she were trying to hold back a cough.
Under the table Mud chewed a flea on his leg. Mud made a lot of noise when he went after a flea. Then he watched the wet spot of fur for a moment to see if the flea had survived. When he didn’t feel anything move beneath the fur, he licked the fur back into place. Then he dropped his head onto his paws.
Maggie dished up a spoonful of popcorn. Monday nights the Blossoms always ate popcorn with milk on it. As she chewed she said, “Vern and I think he went in the woods,” she paused to swallow, “to set his trap.”
“I thought about that,” their mom said. “But that was hours and hours ago.”
“So it was a coyote trap, that thing Junior was making?” Vern asked.
“Yes.” Vicki Blossom sighed. “He heard Pap say something last night about a reward for a coyote, and he saw himself collecting it.” Every time she finished speaking she put her hand against her mouth.
“They thought they caught the coyote,” Pap said, “did I tell you?” He paused with a spoonful of popcorn in front of his mouth, the milk dripping back into his bowl. “A motorist claimed he hit it on Route ninety-one. He went to the police station to collect his hundred dollars. He went in carrying the coyote in his arms.”
Pap grinned. “Turned out it was a collie he’d hit. Mr. Frank R. Roswell’s prize collie. This man hadn’t even noticed that his so-called coyote was wearing a collar and dog tags.” He wagged his head. “Now he’s got to pay for the collie, and prize collies ain’t cheap.” He shoveled the spoonful of popcorn into his mouth.
Vicki Blossom was still looking out the window.
“Junior will be all night setting that trap, making sure every leaf is just right, every piece of wire in place. Mom, you know how he is,” Maggie said. “Junior’s a …” She paused to spring a new word on the Blossoms. “Perfectionist.”
“I know he is, but it’s not like him to miss Monday-night supper no matter what he’s doing. Popcorn and milk’s his favorite.”
Nobody could deny that.
There was a sudden roll of thunder, and they all lowered their spoons and looked toward the window. The sun was behind the clouds, and the afternoon had turned dark.
“Storm’s coming,” Pap said.
“Anyway, I’m not hungry,” Maggie said. She threw down her spoon. It clattered on the table.
And as if this were the signal they had been waiting for, the others threw down their spoons, too, and got up from the table.
Junior had only been in the coyote trap six minutes, but the six minutes had been so long and confusing and terrible, he couldn’t think straight.
When the trapdoor had first clicked behind him, his mouth had fallen open as if it were connected to the same device. He stared at the door in disbelief. Then he sat back hard and rested his back against the hog-wire side.
“No problem,” he told his sinking heart. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “No problem.”
He pushed against the hog wire with his back. It was just as tight, just as secure as when he had crawled in during its construction and said gleefully, “Nobody could get out of this—not even me, the inventor!”
Well, maybe the hog wire was secure. It had to be to hold hogs. Hogs were strong.
He didn’t even want to think of how many nails he had used to secure the superstrong wire—all he had, that’s how many, every single nail he could get his hands on. And he had pulled the wire high on the top.
He slid his fingers through the wire mesh and felt the top. He had pulled the wire so tight that he could not even reach the nails. He tried to inch his stubby fingers forward. The wire cut the soft flesh between his fingers, and still he couldn’t feel the end.
He pulled his hand in and poked it out at the corner. He could feel the screws at the top, the huge screws that held the four corner supports. He could reach those, but that did him no good. His heart sank lower. The screwdriver was back in the barn.
There was only one answer. He would have to go out the way he had come in: through the door. He licked his dry lips and bent low to inspect the latches.
The door was latched on either side—double latches, and both of them had caught. It hurt him to remember how happy he had been at finding two latches in Pap’s junk box. “Double security,” he had cried in the dusty empty barn. He had even danced a little around his invention.
He slipped one dirty finger through the hog wire and tried to jiggle the latch. It was firm. He tried the other side. It was caught firmly too. And the only way to open them, he remembered, was with the blade of a knife. You slipped the knife in and flipped up the latch.
“Piece of cake,” he had cried when he flipped them open, a hundred years ago, back in the Blossom barn.
The knife was back at the barn, too, lying on the ground beside the screwdriver.
Junior glanced at his watch: 3:05. Junior shook his head. He guessed that he had been in the trap about twenty-five hours. Tears filled his eyes.
Actually it had only been six minutes, time enough to realize that he was not going to get out of the trap without outside help.
He spent the next six minutes yelling “Help! Will somebody please let me out of this thing! Please!” at the top of his lungs. He spent the next two minutes listening for sounds of help on the way.
He spent the next two minutes weeping, bent over his knees, his tears rolling down his dusty legs.
A bee buzzed in from the blackberry bushes, and Junior batted it away. “Haven’t I got enough trouble without you?” he sobbed.
CHAPTER 9
Not a Very Good Coyote
Junior heard a noise. His head snapped up. His swollen eyelids opened.
He swirled around, prepared to meet the glint of wild, golden coyote eyes. For the first time the cage wasn’t such a terrible place to be.
There was really only one place where the coyote could sneak up on him. The sides and back of the trap were covered with blackberry bushes; only the front faced a clearing.
And just beyond the clearing, standing behind a tree, watching through the low branches, was Mud. Relief flooded Junior’s body like cool water. He had completely forgotten about Mud!
; “Mud! Good dog! Come here, boy, come here, Mud. Good old Mud.”
Mud flexed his legs and shifted his paws in the pine needles. He did not come.
“Mud, come on, boy! It’s me—Junior!” His voice was high with fake good spirits and real despair. “I was just kidding back there in the woods when I told you to go home. I’m glad to see you, Mud. Come on, Mud.”
Mud did not move.
Junior had a sudden inspiration. His head flew up so fast, it struck the ceiling of the trap. He didn’t stop to rub it. He reached for the tin-can sandwich. He didn’t have to bother about being careful with it now. He dangled it from the string like a yo-yo.
“You want some hamburger, Mud? You want some of this?” He waved it in the air to entice Mud. He said, “Hum-hum, is it good. Remember?”
He pinched off a piece, stuck it on the end of one finger, and poked it through the hog wire.
“Look, Mud. Look what I’ve got. You want some?”
He beckoned to Mud with the finger, luring him closer.
Mud’s tail had started to wag. It was sweeping pine needles right and left.
“You do? Well, come on over. Come on, Mud. Good dog!”
Mud got up. Slowly he came across the clearing. He kept his eyes on the ball of hamburger meat, but he was not happy about himself. This whole trip with Junior had been wrong. As soon as he got over feeling bad about one thing, there was something else to feel bad about.
“Come on, Mud!” Junior tried to speed him along by putting extra enthusiasm in his voice. “Come on!”
Mud continued to walk in his slow, ashamed way, his eyes on the ball of pink meat stuck on the end of Junior’s finger. Not until he was there, at the hog wire, did he lift his head.
“See?” Junior said. Junior allowed Mud to eat the meat from his finger, to lick his fingernail.
“Did you like that? Was it good? Want some more?”
Junior’s plan was to get Mud right up against the hog wire and to grab him by the bandanna. Then he would hold Mud so tight that Mud would begin to howl. Mud always howled when he was held tight. “Don’t hold the dog,” Pap was always saying. “The dog’s like me—he don’t want to be held!”
So Junior would hold and Mud would howl—and Mud howled like something out of a horror movie. Ahwooo-ooo-ooooo-ooooo. It would raise goose bumps on your arms if you didn’t know it was just a dog. Mud would howl, and somebody would hear him, and somebody would come.
Mud’s soft tongue licked Junior’s finger one last time. Junior had a hard time not trying to go for the bandanna right then. He decided to wait. He said calmly, “You want another piece. Here you go.”
He dug out another piece with one finger. This time Junior held it inside the hog wire. Mud could reach it with his tongue, and while he was reaching … that would be the time to … The tone of Junior’s voice had made Mud suspicious. He backed away.
“Don’t you want it?”
Junior got a bigger piece. “I’m not going to do anything to you,” Junior said. “I’m not going to do anything even if it is your fault that I’m in here. If you hadn’t poked your nose on my leg and scared me—Anyway, what can I do? Look at me. I’m locked up in a cage. Come on. I just want you to have this nice piece of meat. I know you like it.”
Mud came forward. This time he stopped just out of Junior’s reach. There was a long moment while Junior held the meat and Mud looked at it. Junior held it closer.
Mud came closer, but something told him not to go too close. He stretched out his neck.
“Here you go, good dog!”
Junior’s fingers curved back toward the cage, bringing the meat away from the wire. His other hand was there, the fingers locked in the hog wire, waiting. His fingers flexed, ready to grab the bandanna when the opportunity came.
“Don’t you want it?” Junior asked. Sweat was rolling down his face. His tongue flicked over his dry lips. “Take it!”
He had the ball of meat between his fingers now, scissorslike. He beckoned Mud closer.
Mud came.
This was the moment, the opportunity Junior had been waiting for. His fingers hooked into the bandanna, and he pulled Mud hard against the cage.
Mud bucked like a horse. He twisted and pulled and yelped. He threw himself into the air. He tried to duck under the collar and slip his head out.
Junior held on tight. Finally Mud stopped fighting and rested against the cage. His wild eyes were rolled in Junior’s direction.
“See, now you just have to howl until somebody comes,” Junior said. He was out of breath from excitement. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry.
Beneath his fingers he could feel Mud trembling. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “But I can’t let you go yet.”
Mud began to whine.
Good, Junior thought. Mud always whined a little before he howled.
Junior’s fingers were beginning to hurt. The wire was cutting them. He switched fingers very carefully. Then those fingers began to hurt.
Junior got the inspiration of his life. He would tie the bandanna to the cage. The ends were just long enough. He would take the ends of the bandanna and slip them through the hog wire and knot them.
Getting the ends through the hog wire was easy, but he was having a hard time tying the knot with one hand. Maybe he could let go of the bandanna just long enough to take the ends. There, it worked. Junior had one end of the bandanna in each hand. He bent to make the knot.
At that moment Mud flung himself back so hard that the cage rocked. Junior thought it was going to topple. He let go just long enough to keep from hitting his head.
The next thing Junior saw was Mud’s tail disappearing into the woods.
“Come back, come back!” he cried. But Junior knew Mud would not return. He gave one final plea: “Mud, at least show them where I am.” But he didn’t think Mud would do that either.
Mud was gone for good, and Junior cried for an hour with helpless frustration. At the peak of his misery he rocked back and forth, hitting his head against the cage and not even feeling it. Then he stopped for a while, then he cried again.
The afternoon dragged on. Bees droned in and out of the cage. The sun beat down on his head. His eyes were so swollen from all the crying that he could hardly see. His nose had somehow swollen, too, inside, so he had to breathe through his mouth.
Finally, to ease the pain in his crooked back, he curled up in a small ball. As he lay there on the hard wood, he realized he was nothing like that coyote on Saturday-morning cartoons. That coyote was always ending up the victim of his own traps, too, but then he got right back out.
The unfairness of it brought new tears of misery to his swollen eyes.
I—, he thought—this was his last unhappy thought before he slept—I don’t make a very good coyote.
CHAPTER 10
The Search for Junior
The Blossoms were on the front porch of the house. Vicki Blossom was giving orders. Pap, Vern, Maggie, and Mud were taking them. Supper was over, and the search for Junior was about to get under way.
Overhead, thunder rolled again in the western sky. This time the sound was louder. The storm was coming closer.
“All right now, what we’re looking for is wheelbarrow tracks. If we can follow those, we’ll find Junior. There’s about—” She broke off and looked up at the threatening sky. “There’s about three hours before night. We’ve got to find Junior before then.”
She looked at them, one by one, as if to impress on each one the seriousness of the situation. They didn’t need her looks to tell them that. Since supper an uneasy feeling had come over all of them. This was not one of Junior’s usual absences. This time Junior was absent—each one knew this—because he could not help being absent. Something had happened to Junior.
Pap was the only one who spoke. “I sure do hate it when somebody’s missing.” He shook his head slowly, back and forth. “It leaves a hole.”
In the silence that followed, Mud moved clo
ser to Pap and leaned against his leg. Pap stepped aside, catching Mud off balance.
Mud straightened and looked longingly at Pap. He had the feeling that there was an enormous distance between him and Pap instead of the few inches that actually separated them.
Ever since Pap had come home from can collecting and said, “Well, where were you when I needed you?” in a certain accusing tone, Mud had known he was out of favor. It was the first can collection he had ever missed.
“Go on, I don’t want to pet you.” Pap had gone into the house and shut the door in Mud’s face.
“I’ll pet you, Mud,” Maggie had said, but Maggie’s hugs only made him struggle harder to get to the screen door so he could scratch on it and follow Pap inside.
And even after Maggie let him in, all Pap said was “I said I don’t want to pet you.”
Mud could not bear being out of favor with Pap. In the past hour he had done everything he could to make up to Pap for his desertion.
First he had pushed his head into Pap’s hand, giving Pap the chance to scratch his nose. Pap had not. Then he had poked his head under Pap’s hand. Pap’s hand had been like a cap on his head for a brief, satisfactory moment, and then Pap had moved it. Then Mud had rested his chin on Pap’s leg during supper. Pap had shrugged him off. Now Mud moved closer to Pap for another try at leaning against his leg. Pap said, “Let’s go.”
Pap went down the steps so heavily, the boards bowed beneath his weight. Mud went behind him, staying close, hoping to hear Pap speak his name or touch him in the old pal-to-pal way.
The five of them followed the wheelbarrow tracks into the woods. Junior had taken a curving, weaving route, skirting trees and large rocks. It was easy to follow because Junior had been in a hurry and had torn up the moss and pine needles.
“Junior!” Vicki called. “Oh, Junior!”
No answer.
They tracked him through the creek. The wheel had been stuck briefly in the mud. It had apparently taken Junior three separate tries to get it up the bank.
