Wyatt Burp Rides Again

by Greg Trine

  “Never heard of the guy.”

  7

  Burrrrrrrp!

  This is not going to be easy, Jo thought. How am I going to find Wyatt Burp and introduce him to my Knuckle Sandwich? Or my Siberian Ear Tweak, for that matter? Jo didn’t know. She gunned the engine of the Schmomobile and raced along Market Street. If Wyatt Burp was taking a day off from evil-deed doing, she would be very disappointed.

  “Got any ideas, Raymond?” Jo asked her dog.

  Raymond gave her a look that said, “Don’t bother me; I’m thinking of doggy snacks.” He was drooling more than ever now. Good thing it was still in style. As the Schmomobile sped along, Raymond laid down a path of dog drool a mile long.

  Where was Wyatt Burp? According to Mrs. Freep, Wyatt Burp and the Hole in the Head Gang wreaked havoc in San Francisco in 1849.

  But there was no sign of him.

  Jo kept an eye peeled. She sniffed the air for the smell of Wyatt Burp’s breakfast. Smelling breakfast would tell her she was on the right track. Either that or it meant she was in the restaurant district.

  Jo kept looking ... and smelling. So far, nothing. Just crowded streets full of prospectors, and—

  Suddenly, thunder roared across the sky!

  Jo looked up. There wasn’t a dark cloud in sight.

  And right then she smelled something. “Bacon,” Jo said. “Do you smell it, Raymond?”

  “Bacon!” Raymond’s look said. He knew he liked 1849.

  Jo kept looking up. “Either someone’s cooking breakfast or Wyatt Burp is in the area.”

  Thunder crashed again. Only it sounded more like B URRRRRRRP! This time it knocked Jo and Raymond off the Schmomobile. And they smelled not only bacon but also sausage and eggs.

  Wyatt Burp, thought Jo as she picked herself up off the ground.

  Im staying in 1849 forever, thought Raymond. “Let’s go, Raymond.”

  “Yes, let’s,” Raymond’s look said.

  They hopped back on the Schmomobile and turned off Market Street just in time for— BURRRRRRRP!

  The blast threw Jo and Raymond into the side of a building. And there stood Wyatt Burp, Festus the Number Two Man, and the rest of the Hole in the Head Gang.

  “Ha-ha! Pardon me, little sister,” Wyatt said. He was sorry to knock over a nine-year-old girl and her dog. But he wasn’t that sorry. “Ha-ha!”

  “That’s the worst evil laugh I’ve ever heard,” Jo whispered.

  Raymond gave her a look that said, “Never mind that. Where’s the bacon?” Raymond was all for catching bad guys, just not during snack time.

  Jo got to her feet. “Stop in the name of—”

  Stop in the name of what? This was the hardest part of superhero work—figuring out what to add after “Stop in the name of.” Stop in the name of a fourth grade girl and her little dog, too? Stop in the name of time travel? Stop in the name of “No one wants to smell your breakfast”?

  While Jo was trying to figure out what to add after “Stop in the name of,” Wyatt Burp and the Hole in the Head Gang got away.

  “Drat!” yelled Jo.

  “Double drat!” the look on Raymond’s face said. He really wanted that bacon.

  8

  Burping Practice

  Gertrude McSlime and Betty Sludgefoot didn’t know that Jo Schmo had gone back in time. They were busy setting up the crane and wrecking ball at the end of Crimshaw Avenue and waiting for Jo to pass by so they could squash her like a bug. Bugsquashing was one of Betty’s favorite pastimes. She had never squashed a Jo Schmo before, but she was very open to new experiences.

  While they waited for Jo, the two girls practiced their burping. If Wyatt Burp could do it, so could they. After all, they were now members of the National Society for the Advancement of Burping (NSAB), an organization founded way back in 1849 by Wyatt himself.

  Gertrude read from the NSAB brochure. “It says here that Wyatt Burp got his burping power by drinking mass quantities of sarsaparilla.”

  “Sarsaparilla? What’s that?”

  “It’s a soft drink from a long time ago.”

  “Where can we get our hands on some?”

  Gertrude shook her head. “No need. We’ll use the modern stuff. Coke, Dr Pepper, Sprite. Mix them together and see what happens. We’ll be burping like Wyatt Burp in no time, or my name isn’t Gertrude McSlime.”

  “It’s not?” And all this time, Betty had thought her best friend’s name was Gertrude McSlime.

  “Never mind. Let’s go get something to help us burp more effectively. So we can burp—”

  “Like a lumberjack?” Betty asked.

  “Like Wyatt Burp, the best burper of all time.”

  The two girls climbed down off the crane and ran for the nearest convenience store. Gertrude was so excited that she let out an evil laugh. “Jo Schmo won’t know what hit her. If we miss with the wrecking ball, we’ll burp her to death.”

  “Death by burping?” Betty made a face. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Me neither. But don’t forget, Wyatt Burp once blew the vault doors off the First National Bank of San Francisco. Those doors could have landed on someone and squashed him.”

  “I love squashing things,” Betty said.

  “I know.”

  Back at the crane, Gertrude McSlime and Betty Sludgefoot began mixing together different soft drinks and testing the combinations. The more carbonation the better.

  B URRRRRRRP!

  “Not bad,” Betty said. She was proud to be a member of the National Society for the Advancement of Burping.

  9

  The Floating Hideout

  As the Hole in the Head Gang galloped away, Wyatt Burp turned to Festus the Number Two Man. “Stop in the name of? Who does she think she is, the sheriff? And why was she wearing that cape?”

  Back in 1849, they hadn’t heard of superheroes yet. A person in a cape meant one thing.

  “Maybe she’s a vampire,” Festus said.

  Wyatt nodded. He didn’t know that vampires never came out in the daytime. He was a bad guy, not an expert in vampires. “We better keep an eye out for that little girl in the red cape.”

  “And her little dog, too?”

  “Yes. The dog was wearing a cape as well.”

  “And drooling like it was going out of style.”

  “Fortunately, this is 1849. Drooling is very much in style.”

  “If you say so.” Festus the Number Two Man was known to drool now and then himself. But it was usually when he was in the presence of an attractive woman.

  With Wyatt Burp and the Hole in the Head Gang gone, so was the smell of what Wyatt had had for breakfast. Raymond looked at Jo with an expression that said, “I no longer smell bacon and it’s all your fault.”

  “Not to worry, Raymond,” Jo said. “Let’s go.”

  The Schmomobile could go from zero to sixty in 4.3 seconds. Wyatt Burp and his gang were on horses. Jo could run them down in less than a minute.

  If she could figure out which way they went.

  Jo and Raymond hopped on the Schmomobile and raced down the street. “Keep an ear perked, Raymond,” Jo said. “Listen for something that sounds like thunder.”

  Raymond gave her a look that said, “ You keep an ear perked for something that sounds like thunder. I’ll keep my nose perked for something that smells like bacon.”

  “That’ll work,” Jo said.

  The Schmomobile raced through the streets of San Francisco, Jo’s cape flapping behind her, and Raymond drooling even more than before. Bacon, he thought, breakfast of champions ... breakfast of superheroes.

  Wyatt Burp brought his galloping horse to a stop near the wharf and looked out at San Francisco Bay, which was filled with abandoned ships. The ships had come from all over the world, filled with prospectors headed for the California goldfields. Many of the ships were now unoccupied.

  “I’ve always wanted a floating hideout,” Wyatt said. “Gang, huddle up.”

  Festus the Nu
mber Two Man and the rest of the gang gathered around their leader.

  “Boys, it has come to my attention that we’re being pursued by a vampire. A mini vampire, but still, a bite on the neck is a bite on the neck. What do you say we take one of these ships to the other side of the bay and make plans?”

  “Aye!” cheered the gang.

  “Who knows anything about sailing?”

  No one said a word. They were outlaws, not sailors.

  10

  Super Dog Paddle

  “Hoist that heavy thing!” Wyatt Burp commanded.

  “You mean the anchor?” Festus the Number Two Man asked. Festus wasn’t a sailor, but even he knew what an anchor was.

  Once the anchor was pulled up, the gang raised the sails, and soon the ship was headed across the bay. There was not much wind, but with Wyatt on board, they could create their own. Wind, that is.

  “Here, drink some more sarsaparilla, boss,” Festus said. When Wyatt finished a bottle, Festus added, “Okay, let her rip.”

  “BURRRRRRRP!”

  With a blast of hot air—and the smell of bacon—the ship picked up speed and sailed away from the wharf.

  “BURRRRRRRP!"

  “Did you hear that, Raymond?” The Schmomobile raced toward the waterfront, capes flying and dog drool trailing behind.

  Raymond gave her a look that said, “More important, I smelled it. Bacon! Faster, Jo. I want snacks.”

  Moments later, the two superheroes arrived at the wharf, just in time for—

  “BURRRRRRRP!”

  Jo Schmo looked out across the bay. “There they are!” She pointed to a ship sailing away from them. There wasn’t much wind, but burp power seemed to be working just fine.

  And the smell was making Raymond crazy.

  “Down, boy,” Jo said to her dog.

  Raymond didn’t feel like lying down, not when there was bacon to be had.

  The problem was that Jo and Raymond couldn’t sail a large ship by themselves, and besides, wouldn’t that be stealing? Stealing was a crime. How could a superhero do such a thing? And what would her retired-sheriff grandfather have to say about that?

  Also, Jo Schmo didn’t know how to swim. If she jumped in the water, she’d sink like ... a heavy thing. She stood on the shore, watching the ship sail farther and farther away.

  Jo looked at her dog. “Do you know how to swim, Raymond?”

  “Do I hate fleas?” Raymond’s look said. “Does bacon smell good? Do I want some right now?” He really did want some right now. Sooner, if possible.

  “Follow me.” Jo ran along the waterfront, looking for a boat small enough for the two of them to handle. They wouldn’t steal it—they’d just borrow it for a while.

  “There!” It was a small wooden rowboat, perfect for a superhero. Jo climbed into the boat and untied it from the dock. She held on to Raymond’s front paws while the rest of him dangled in the water. “Dog-paddle, boy.”

  “Brrrrrrrrr,” Raymond’s look said.

  “Do you want bacon or don’t you?” Jo asked. She didn’t have to say another word. Bacon was exactly what Raymond wanted. Eggs and sausage, too, but bacon was his all-time favorite.

  With the thought of bacon in his head, Raymond dog-paddled like he never had before. The little rowboat sped away from the dock in pursuit of the burp-powered ship and the Hole in the Head Gang.

  11

  "Mwah-ha-Burrrrrrrp-ha!"

  You may be asking yourself, “What was going on in modern times while Raymond was busy dog-paddling back in 1849?” If you’re not asking that, go ahead and ask.

  Thanks for asking.

  While Raymond was busy dog-paddling back in 1849, Gertrude McSlime and Betty Sludgefoot were sitting in the wrecking-ball machine, waiting for Jo Schmo to walk by so they could squash her like a bug. As you know, squashing bugs was one of Betty Sludgefoot’s favorite pastimes.

  While they sat and waited for Jo, they mixed up different combinations of soft drinks and kept working on their burps. If Wyatt Burp could do it, so could they. Or so they thought. BURRRRRRRP!

  “Not bad,” Gertrude said to Betty.

  To be honest, it was kind of bad. It wasn’t exactly a Wyatt Burp–caliber burp. It was more like a Betty Sludgefoot burp. It couldn’t blow the doors off anything. It was more like the wind created by a passing butterfly.

  But the two girls didn’t care. Their burps seemed loud enough to wake the dead, and that was all that mattered. If you couldn’t blow the doors off things, you could at least be loud. Besides, the wrecking ball would do the real work. Jo Schmo wouldn’t know what hit her until it was too late.

  Just thinking about it made Gertrude smile. She threw back her head and let out an evil laugh. “Mwah-ha—BURRRRRRRP—ha!”

  An evil-laugh-and-burp combo. Even Wyatt Burp would be impressed.

  The girls waited and waited. Then they waited. And after they waited, they ... waited. But there was no sign of Jo Schmo.

  “Maybe we should do a practice swing with the wrecking ball,” Betty suggested.

  “Good idea,” said Gertrude. “What’s our target?”

  “See the bug on that wall?”

  “Okay, here goes.”

  If they could hit a bug on a wall, they could hit a Jo Schmo.

  Gertrude pulled a few levers, and the wrecking ball swung toward the bug—

  CRASH!

  “Did I hit the bug?” Gertrude asked.

  Betty shook her head. “Not sure, but that building is history.”

  12

  That-a-Sidekick!

  With the wind created by Wyatt Burp’s burps, the Hole in the Head Gang headed across the bay. But all was not well.

  Festus the Number Two Man stood at the rear of the ship and looked back. “Better drink more sarsaparilla, boss. Here comes that mini vampire.”

  “And her little dog, too?” asked Wyatt.

  Festus nodded. “Yep, both of them.” He shuddered at the thought. A shrimpy vampire was bad enough, but a vampire dog was a very scarything. “More burps, boss. I think they’re gaining on us.”

  Festus was right—they were gaining on them. Raymond was an expert dog paddler. He was, after all, a dog. But he was also a superhero’s sidekick. He had superpowers, so he could not only drool like it was going out of style but also do a super dog paddle. And dog paddling was very much in style, even in 1849.

  The little rowboat occupied by Jo Schmo and powered by Raymond sped across the bay. “That-a-boy,” said Jo. “Keep it up, Raymond.”

  Raymond kept paddling.

  Meanwhile, Wyatt drank more sarsaparilla and kept burping. Single burps, double burps, and a few triple burps thrown in just for the heck of it.

  And then something happened. A bank of fog rolled into the bay. A fog thick as quicksand—maybe thicker.

  “If we can make it to the fog, she’ll never find us,” Wyatt said. And with that, he burped even more.

  "Almost there, boss,” said Festus the Number Two Man.

  Jo Schmo didn’t see the bank of fog roll in. She had her back turned because she was holding the front paws of Raymond while he paddled.

  But Raymond saw the fog. He gave Jo a look that said, “Uh-oh.”

  Jo turned around to see what he was uh-ohing about. The ship occupied by the Hole in the Head Gang and powered by Wyatt and his sarsaparilla disappeared into the fog.

  “Uh-oh,” Jo said. “Don’t tell me they just disappeared into the fog.”

  Raymond’s look said, “Okay, I won’t tell you. But what do we do now?”

  “Keep paddling, Raymond. I’ll think of

  Jo had once gotten an A in thinking, in Mrs. Freep’s class. If anyone could come up with something, Jo could. But right now she was all out of ideas.

  13

  Thick as a Milk Shake

  “Ha-ha! We’re safe,” Wyatt Burp said. “Ha-ha!” He didn’t care that he had the worst evil laugh the world had ever known. The important thing was that they were safe inside the
fog, and the mini vampire and her little dog, too, wouldn’t be able to find them.

  But just in case, Wyatt passed out scarves to the members of his gang.

  “It’s just fog, boss,” Festus the Number Two Man said.

  “I don’t care about the fog,” Wyatt said. He pointed behind the ship. “There’s still a vampire out there, and—”

  “A bite on the neck is a bite on the neck?”

  “Exactly,” Wyatt said. “Cover your necks, boys.”

  Wyatt wrapped a scarf around his neck and kept burping into the sails. With all the fog, he couldn’t see where they were going. But somewhere behind them there was a mini vampire. And a bite on the neck, even a mini one, might not be a whole lot of fun.

  “Keep an eye peeled, boys. She might be closer than we think.”

  You might be asking yourself, “If Jo Schmo is a superhero, she must have x-ray vision, so why can’t she see through the fog?”

  Good question.

  The fact is, Jo’s cape was something she inherited, and it came with a set of instructions. Jo hadn’t yet read the chapter on x-ray vision. She didn’t know how to use it. Besides, maybe it didn’t work in fog. She’d have to wait until she got back to modern times to find out.

  If she made it back to modern times.

  “Keep paddling, Raymond. We’re almost there.” Almost to the fog, that is.