The Preposterous Adventures of Swimmer (3 page)

The real danger, Swimmer learned, was not the dog but the human creature somewhere behind it.

It was time to leave. With the bell caught between his teeth, Swimmer began working his way cautiously downward in the direction of the new creek, whose rushing he could hear in the distance. Having to limp on three legs was bad enough, what with his empty belly and the way he was feeling, but being forced to do it with his head down, so he could hold the dratted bell, was almost too much.

Every few yards he stopped to test the air and listen. Even before he heard the human over on his left, he was suddenly startled by the feeling of deadly threat in that direction. He had forgotten that danger could be felt before it was seen or heard. Then he glimpsed it moving stealthily between the trees. The human was what Clarence would have called a tough-looking young punk in Levi's; he carried a gun and he was out to kill anything that moved.

“Drat 'em all!” Swimmer muttered angrily to himself. It was a crying shame the whole human race couldn't be done away with. Things would sure be better. Oh, he would want to save Clarence, of course, and probably Miss Primm. She had worked so hard teaching him.…

All at once the high yapping of the dog informed him that it must have stumbled across his scent. It was racing down toward him.

Swimmer dropped the bell and began leaping clumsily for the creek. He was only a few yards from it when the dog caught up with him and began yelping and circling in a frenzy. It was a nasty little brown mongrel no larger than himself; something about it was so infuriating to Swimmer that his blood boiled and he started to lunge for the dog. But at that moment there was a hurried crashing in the underbrush and a yell from the dog's owner.

“Hang on to 'im, Tattle! Don't let 'im git away!”

Swimmer dodged in the direction of the creek, trying to keep trees and boulders between the gun and himself.

Somewhere in the distance a new voice—it sounded like a small girl's—cried shrilly, “Stop it, Weaver! Don't you dare shoot! You've no right—”

“I'll hunt where I danged please!” Weaver snapped. “You keep out of my business, or I'll bust you one!”

“Weaver—”

The girl's voice was lost in the roar of the gun. Chips of rock flew over Swimmer's head. The brown dog circled him swiftly, trying to turn him from the creek. It came an inch too close, and Swimmer made a single lightning snap that drove the dog away, yelping with pain.

As he scrambled down through the creek-side tangle, he was aware of Weaver's sudden furious burst of language, followed by a choking cry from the girl. It sounded as though she had been struck. Then the water closed over Swimmer's head and he was carried away by the current.

Downstream where the creek broadened and deepened, Swimmer surfaced briefly, his sleek dark head coming up and turning like a periscope. He was too shaken to see all that he might have seen, for his badly swollen leg was throbbing steadily and he was weak from hunger. All he wanted was a safe hiding place and a chance to find food. At the moment the only spot that seemed to offer shelter was a narrow crevice under an overhanging rock. He dove and swam to it.

It was a better place than he had expected. Only another otter could have found it. Way back under, a crack in the rock actually formed a dry shelf he could stretch out upon.

With the first small feeling of security he had felt since leaving Clarence, Swimmer made himself as comfortable as he could on the shelf. Hunger gnawed at him, but that could wait till he had rested and calmed down a bit. There were trout in the pool, he could see them from the shelf. With a bit of scheming maybe he could catch one in spite of his bum leg.…

Abruptly all the woes of the world seemed to fall upon him. He felt homeless and lost and beaten and drowning in blackness. It was such an unspeakably awful feeling, as bad as that time when the trapper killed his mother, that it drove him out of his hiding place and back into the creek. Something was terribly wrong somewhere.

He surfaced cautiously in an eddy, and again his head came up like a periscope as he searched for danger. There was none. But over by the water's edge, huddled against a rock with her head in her arms, was a small redheaded girl. She was crying.

Swimmer had never seen a human cry before. Nor had he ever felt such desolation come from one. He was a little stunned.

Something in him melted. Slowly he swam to her.

At the water's edge he hesitated, trying to think of something soothing to say. But what can you say to a small human who can feel such black and utterly hopeless despair? He thought of inventing a few words, but none that came to mind seemed right for the occasion. Finally he crawled out beside her and nuzzled her arm, all the while making soft little chirruping sounds to show that he understood and sympathized.

The arm went about him instantly and clung tight. “Oh, Ripple,” she sobbed, “I'm so glad you came. W-why does life have to be so—so awful?”

“Aw, it's not life. It's the dratted people in it,” Swimmer mumbled, trying not to make his gnome voice sound so weary and gnomish. He hadn't intended to speak right away, fearing it would frighten her. The words just slipped out.

She wasn't frightened. But her sobbing stopped, and she turned her very freckled and tear-streaked face and stared at him. She had the brightest and unhappiest blue eye he had ever seen. He supposed the other eye was equally blue, but it was swollen shut and that side of her face was darkening.

“Why—why, you're not Ripple!” she said in wonder. “She hasn't learned to talk yet. Thank goodness you have. I—I need somebody to talk to so bad …”

“Is it because of the way that dirty Weaver treated you?”

“That's only part of it. How—how'd you know about Weaver?”

“Because I heard you yell at him when he and that ratty dog were after me.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “It was
you
he shot at! He and his pa hate otters, and I was scared to death it was Ripple or her mother he was trying to kill.” Suddenly her fingers discovered his harness. “Why, you're wearing a silver chain, and—and a bell! How beautiful! Do—do you belong to somebody?”

“Belong to somebody? Me?” Swimmer was outraged. “Phooey! I've been a prisoner in old Doc Hoffman's lab most of my life, and I just escaped the other night. And don't call this blatted bell beautiful. I hate it. It's a wonder that dirty Weaver didn't hear it, but with all the racket … Anyway, if I don't get rid of it soon, it'll surely be the death of me.”

She stared at him again, and her good eye grew round and thoughtful. “Is—is your name Swimmer?”

“That's right. How'd you guess?”

“It was on TV last night,” she said quickly. “I didn't hear it all. You see, Mr. Sykes—I'm boarded out to Weaver's pa by the county 'cause I don't have folks—Mr. Sykes, he was mad at me as usual, and wouldn't let me listen. But—but there was something about a famous educated otter named Swimmer that was lost over in some other valley—”

She paused abruptly and gave a startled cry. “Oh! Your leg—you're hurt!”

In the next breath Swimmer was surprised to find her fussing over him like a vet. “I've fixed lots of breaks like this,” she said. “Well, three, anyway. They were birds, but I can use the same sort of splint for you. A small piece of fresh poplar bark is best. It'll curl right around your leg, and I'll tie it real carefully. If you'll wait, I'll go get a knife and some string—”

They were interrupted by a man's voice calling angrily in the distance. “Penny? Where are you, Penny? Daggone you, girl, you'd better git back here fast!”

A sob caught in her throat, and she jumped to her feet. “That's Mr. Sykes,” she whispered. “I—I have to run, but I'll try not to be long.”

3

He Meets the Wild

F
or several minutes after Penny had gone, Swimmer waited uneasily on the rock, studying the wooded slope where he had seen her last. This part of the mountains was very different from the farming country he had come through yesterday. Everything was thicker and wilder, and there was hardly a sign that humans lived anywhere near. What, then, were people like Weaver Sykes and his father doing in this kind of place?

He was startled by the sudden excited cry of a kingfisher in the air directly behind him. It was a sound he had nearly forgotten. He turned in time to see the bird dive into the pool and emerge with a small fish in its bill.

The sight of food, caught so easily, was almost too much for the starving otter who had had only one undernourished frog to eat in two whole days. “Dratted cackle-head!” he muttered. “Do you have to show off in front of me?”

But maybe, if he went about it right, he could manage to snag a trout before Penny returned.

He slid back into the water. Cautiously he moved about the pool, keeping to the shadows. Several times he was able to creep close to trout, but they always darted to safety whenever he lunged for them. He was almost in despair when he discovered a crawfish hiding among the pebbles.

It was the most delicious bite he had ever had in his life. But it would have taken fifty such bites to ease the hunger that now raged in him, and he could find only two more crawfish in the pool. Instead of dulling his appetite, they whetted it. When he crawled back on the rock to wait for Penny, he felt hungrier than he had all day.

The afternoon shadows deepened. What could have happened to Penny? Worried now, he tested the air for sound and scent, searching for a clue that would tell more about her. But the breeze was wrong and all he caught was the whiff of a dog coming from the opposite direction.

It wasn't Tattle, the nuisance who had chased him. The scent was different. Something told Swimmer that the animal approaching was a much larger and more formidable creature. To be on the safe side, he crouched on the edge of the rock, ready to slide into the pool.

The dog appeared suddenly, without a sound—a big tawny beast with powerful jaws and heavy shoulders, eyes as hard and sharp as polished flint. It studied Swimmer a moment, then gave a low growl that was more of a greeting than a threat.

You are new here?
The thought was as clear as speech.

Yes
, Swimmer responded.
You know others of my kind?

I know all who come through here. Her friends are my friends
.

There wasn't any doubt that Penny was meant.
It is a relief to know you are on her side
, Swimmer admitted.
She really needs a friend like you. If you had only been here earlier …

I was far away when I felt the trouble in her. What happened?

Swimmer explained. The dog growled again, this time in anger, and turned to go up the slope where Penny had gone. But he had taken only a few steps when it became evident that someone was coming.

Instantly the big dog gave a happy bark and sprang into the shadows. In a few seconds Swimmer heard Penny exclaim, “Scruff, you old dickens, you! Oh, I'm so glad to see you! Where've you been?”

When they came out by the creek, Penny said, “Swimmer, I came back as soon as I could, but I had to help Mr. Sykes pack another rush order. Then I had an awful time of it sneaking away with all the things I needed without being caught. The way they watch me, you'd think I was a thief.”

She started to open a paper bag she carried, then suddenly exclaimed, “My goodness, I haven't introduced you two! Scruff, this is Swimmer. He's been in captivity a long time, but he's just escaped and he's got a broken leg. You've got to promise to be his friend, Scruff. Swimmer—”

“We've already met,” Swimmer interrupted. “And he's told me that your friends are his friends.”

Penny stared at him. “Scruff
talked
to you?”

“Well, sort of. We exchanged thoughts.”

“
Honestly?
” Her small mouth grew round.

“Sure,” said Swimmer. “Everything exchanges thoughts. Except people, of course. They're sort of limited.”

She giggled. Then, seriously, “I know Scruff's awfully smart. He understands every word I say, even though he's a wild dog and won't go near anyone but me. But being smart doesn't make him a mind reader. If he was, he'd know exactly what I've got in this bag.”

“But of course he knows! So do I!”

“Tell me!”

“String, knife, pliers, and—and four trout.”

Penny blinked her good eye and suddenly laughed. “Aw, but I'd already told you part of what I was going to bring. And you smelled the trout.”

“Pshaw, I can't smell in numbers. And you didn't say anything about bringing pliers.” The tantalizing smell of the fish was becoming almost more than Swimmer could bear. “Please,” he begged. “Won't you give me a trout before I have a fainting spell? I can't catch 'em with a bum leg and I'm starved to a frazzle.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” Instantly she drew a fat trout from the bag and placed it on the rock before him. A second trout went to Scruff. “I had a feeling you'd be back,” she said to the dog, “so I stole an extra fish for you. I'm saving the two little ones for Willow and Ripple—not that they're hungry, but they do love to be remembered.”

“You stole them?” Swimmer burbled between bites.

“I sure did. Mr. Sykes runs a trout farm.” Her mouth tightened defiantly. “Maybe I
am
a thief, but I don't care. I work hard enough to pay for ten times a few fish. The minute I'm back from school it's, Penny, do this; Penny, do that; Penny, do something else. Wash the dishes, make the beds, iron the shirts, fix the supper—and, in between, it's always the trout. I've just finished cleaning and packing a hundred and fifty trout for that rush order that came in this afternoon.”

While she spoke, she had been examining a clump of poplar saplings that grew near the bottom of the slope. Now she drew a knife from the bag and made two cuts around a smooth section of one of the slender trunks. Carefully she peeled away the bark between the cuts, then knelt beside Swimmer and began trimming the bark to fit the broken leg.