“Oh, I think people do.”
“People like Elmer Fudd!” Billy said.
Billy said it all goofy-like, which made Gabby glare at him and say, “This is serious, okay?”
“I wewize dat!” he said, sounding just like Elmer Fudd.
“Then act like it!” Gabby snapped.
He put his finger to his lips and whispered, “Pweaze, wady! I’m twying to wisten!” Then he turned to Casey. “Gow won, den.”
“I don’t even know what I was saying,” Casey grumbled.
“Sowwey.”
“How about boar?” I asked Casey, trying to get things back on track. “Would you use birdshot if you were trying to kill a boar?”
“Buckshot, maybe. Birdshot would probably just make it mad. And shot’s messy. If you’re hunting for game, you have to get all the little pellets out before you eat it.” He hesitated. “You know how shot works, right?”
I shook my head. “And how come you do? You’re scaring me, you know.”
He laughed. “I’m not into guns, but there’s this guy in our neighborhood who’s a skeet-shooting fanatic.”
“Skeet? Is that some kind of bird?”
“Sort of. It’s a clay pigeon.”
“A clay pigeon?”
“It’s a little Frisbee of clay that everyone calls a pigeon. Don’t ask me.”
“You know,” Billy said, pretending to aim a shotgun in the air. He cried, “Pull!” then tracked who-knows-what with the imaginary barrel of his gun. “Phuuugh! Crack-crack, phuuugh!” He lowered the “gun” and blew on the end of the imaginary barrel.
Casey eyed Billy with a scowl. “Anyway, shotguns use fat cartridges with a bunch of pellets in them. When you fire a shotgun, the cartridge opens up and the pellets spray. The size of the pellets depends on what you’re hunting, but any size shot starts out in a tight wad, then spreads out. So the closer you are to something, the more concentrated the damage.”
“Can you tell how far away someone was when they shot Marvin?”
He looked at Marvin and shook his head. “I have no idea. But I do think Marvin’s lucky to be alive.”
Ever since I’d seen the blood on Marvin’s chest, I’d had the eerie feeling that this hadn’t been an accident. But who wants to believe that someone had come out to the woods to hunt and kill an endangered species? Now, though, that eerie feeling had become the creeping shivers. Like an army of ticks doing a speedy march up my spine. So I finally just came out and said it. “I think someone shot him on purpose.”
Cricket looked at me like there wasn’t enough combined insanity in the world to make someone actually believe that. “Why would anyone shoot a condor on purpose?”
“I don’t know, but shot pellets hit him under his wing and on the inside of his chest. He must’ve been in flight when someone fired at him.”
“I still say they thought he was a turkey vulture,” Cricket said.
“Or maybe he startled them,” Gabby added.
I shook my head. “Is it so hard to believe someone would shoot a condor?”
“Yes!” Cricket and Gabby both cried.
I poofed out a breath of air, then said, “What about AC-what’s-his-name? Were you able to track him?”
“It’s AC-34, and it’s a female,” Gabby said like a nature girl smarty-pants. “She’s Marvin’s mom, remember?”
“Oh, right,” I said, “like I was so reminded by the name.”
“Shut up,” Nature Girl snapped back.
“Look. I’m just thinking maybe the mom got shot, too. We heard two shots. Two distinct shots, remember?”
“AC-34’s fine,” Gabby said.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I tracked her signal, that’s how. I tracked both of them. AC-34 was headed west. It was Marvin’s signal pattern that was weird. And when I tracked him down about an hour later and saw that he was hurt, I started following him and calling for help.”
“How long did you follow him?” Cricket asked.
“All day. Forever. Hours.”
I scratched my head. “Well, I tell you what, my gut tells me that him being hurt was no accident.”
Casey and Billy had been hanging around listening to all of this, but now Billy broke away from the group, saying, “You go ahead and listen to your gut and I’ll listen to mine. It’s snake time!”
“Aren’t you afraid it’s rancid by now?” I asked.
“Or poisoned?” Gabby said. “What if it bit itself?”
Billy laughed. “You just want me to give it all to Marvin! Well, forget it! I conked him, I’m eatin’ him!”
Cricket’s face pinched up as she whispered, “Do you think someone was wanting to eat Marvin? Like what if they’re stuck down here and starving and—”
“You don’t go shooting a rare, endangered species for dinner!” Gabby snapped. “It’s just not done!”
Cricket gave a helpless shrug. “But if they didn’t know . . .”
“How could they not know?” I asked. “It was in flight and it’s huge!”
Gabby spun on me. “How could they not know? If it wasn’t for us, you wouldn’t have known!”
Oh. Good point. So I shut up about it and helped Billy get a fire going while the others got the people tent ready. I was starving. We all were. Which is probably half the reason we were all snapping at each other. I mean, it’s bad enough to be lost and tired, but lost and tired and hungry and thirsty and in charge of a shot-up condor?
We were all totally stressed.
Well, everyone except Billy. He was having a blast getting his snake ready for roasting. “Check out this skin!” he said after he’d gutted the snake and peeled the skin off whole. “This is the most bitchen snakeskin ever!”
We all looked at him like, Bitchen? ’cause who actually uses that word? Sure, I’d heard it in old movies and stuff, but in real life?
“And check out the rattle! I’m gonna tie a piece of leather to it and wear it around my neck. You know—like those surfer dudes wear a shark’s tooth?”
“Like cannibals wear shrunken heads?” Gabby muttered.
Billy’s eyes got big. “The head! I should have kept the head! I could have—”
“Billy!” we all shouted. “Enough!”
He scowled and grumbled, “You guys are no fun,” then dug through his backpack for some spices.
I went up to Cricket and Gabby, who were searching their daypacks for food. “What’s left?”
“Not much,” Cricket said. “Gabby’s down to one smashed energy bar.”
“How about water?”
Cricket checked her canteen. “About an inch left.”
It was the same story with Gabby, and I had even less.
“We’ll survive,” Cricket whispered. “It’s just for one night.”
“What are you guys whispering about?”
Casey’s voice startled me, so I spun around. “Uh, nothing.”
“Food,” Gabby said. “We’re talking about food and water and how we don’t have any.”
“Don’t say it like it’s his fault,” Cricket said through her teeth. “Do I have to remind you that all of this is your fault?”
“My fault? Like it’s my fault somebody shot a condor? What was I supposed to do? Let it die?”
“Whoa. Take it easy,” Casey said. “I’ve got plenty of food; the problem is water.”
I pulled a little face, which I shouldn’t have because it made my bottom lip crack. I tried to lick the pain away and said, “You don’t have much, either?”
He shook his head. “Maybe a cup. Not enough to cook dinner, that’s for sure. And most of my stuff has to be rehydrated.”
Just then I smelled something wonderful. Something smoky, roasty, mouthwatering wonderful. And before it dawned on me what it was, my stomach grumbled like, Let-me-at-it!
“Oh, wow . . .” Gabby gasped, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled the smell. “That can’t be . . . snake?”
One by one we s
tumbled over to the fire ring. It was like Billy had cast out lines of aroma and was now reeling us in by the nose. He had the snake lashed to a stick and was roasting it like the biggest hot dog ever.
“I’ve never tried snake before,” Gabby said, still in a trance.
“Me either,” Cricket said, all snake-charmed.
I didn’t say anything. I just drooled.
“Ah-ah-ah,” Billy said, in slow rotisserie mode. “I saved a chunk for our wounded phoenix, but the rest is mine.”
“Our wounded phoenix?” Casey asked.
Billy rotated his snake-kabob. “From the ash shall rise a magnificent beast, and all shall gaze in wonder at its glory!”
Casey shook his head. “Where do you get this stuff?”
Billy grinned. “From the Book of Billy Pratt.” He looked around at us. “So what are you guys eating?”
“Trail mix,” we grumbled.
“Mm-mmm,” he said, slowly turning the snake. “Sounds delish.”
So we all sat around the fire choking down nuts and raisins while Billy roasted his snake. And it was looking pretty done to me, when all of a sudden the lashings that held the snake caught on fire.
Billy started dancing around, blowing on the snake, crying, “Out, you heathen flame! This is my snake! Mine!” But all that did was make the snake fall off the stick and into the dirt.
Billy stood there a minute, smoky stick in one hand, charred and dusty snake at his feet. But then he chucked the stick into the fire, dusted off the snake, and declared, “Chow time!”
We watched him scarf for about five minutes before I finally chuckled and said, “What a caveman you are, Billy.”
He showed me his snaky teeth. “Ug.”
“What’s it taste like?” I asked. “Besides dirt.”
“Chicken,” he teased. Then he added, “Actually, it does.” And then, because Billy doesn’t know when to quit, he said, “Hmm. I wonder if condor tastes like chicken.”
“That’s it,” Gabby said, standing up and heading for the tent. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Be there in a minute, honey!” Billy called.
“You’re weird!” she called back.
Billy blew her a squeaky kiss. Then he grinned at Casey and said, “I believe the wench has a thing for me.”
“In your dreams,” Casey snorted.
“Which I’ll get to soon enough! But for now, somebody tell us a scary story!”
I deadpanned, “Deep in the forest, between the darkness of time lost and souls betrayed, roamed a dreadful beast known as Billy Pratt. . . .”
“Aar-ooooo!” Billy howled.
Casey laughed, but Cricket stood up and said, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to sleep, too. I’m just beat.”
Which left me and Casey sitting around the fire watching Billy eat snake. “That looks like it’s all bone,” I said as he chucked another section of snake ribs into the fire.
“It is,” he admitted. “This sucker’s one big tunnel of bones.”
“Does it really taste like chicken?” Casey asked.
“Here, bro. Be my guest.” He broke off a piece and handed it to Casey, then broke off another and handed it to me. “Don’t tell the wenches,” he whispered. “Wouldn’t want them to get jealous.”
So I took the snake, and yes, I ate it.
And you know what?
Rattlesnake tastes like chicken.
Kinda stringy chicken, kinda tough chicken, but still, chicken.
After we were all done picking the bones clean, we poked at the embers for a while and just laughed about stupid stuff.
Which basically means that Billy did all the talking.
And since the fire was dying down and Billy and Casey had jackets but I didn’t, I wound up sitting with Casey, his jacket draped across both of us.
And really, I didn’t know what we were doing up so late. I was dead tired, I was sore and parched and filthy and chapped, but I didn’t want to go to sleep. I just wanted to sit under the stars with Casey and watch the fire burn down to embers, while Billy prattled on about the “snake floss” between his teeth and whatever else happened to ping-pong through his head.
But finally the fire was out, and Billy actually seemed to be running out of energy, too. So I said, “How is this sleep business going to work?” I looked back at the tent. “That is not a five-person tent.”
Billy stood. “Those wenches are just going to have to scootch. No way I’m staying out here so the centipedes can get me.”
“Centipedes?” I looked at Casey. “Centipedes?”
He sort of shrug-nodded. “Little, but deadly. They come out at night.”
“Oh, great . . . !”
He laughed. “Yeah, they’re pretty creepy.” He stood up. “So it’s either let the bird go or cram into one tent.”
Obviously we couldn’t let the bird go.
Which left the tent.
He shot Billy a look. “No Sleep Zombie tonight, all right, man? I have a feeling we’re in for a killer day tomorrow.”
Aar-ooooo!
THIRTEEN
It’s not something I like to broadcast, but when I sleep, I drool. Not always, but when I’m really tired, big puddles of saliva seem to just drain out of my mouth. Some mornings it’s so bad you could row a boat from one side of my pillow to the other.
Seriously.
And it’s not like having a boy-girl slumber party in a tiny tent with only two sleeping bags wasn’t awkward enough or that being crusted in dust with a sunburned nose, cracked lips, and little bits of snake between my teeth wasn’t revolting enough, I also had to worry about drooling.
So I parked myself on the opposite side of the tent from Casey, grabbed a corner of one of the sleeping bags, and turned my back. And I must’ve been really, really tired, because I don’t remember a thing after that. I just conked out.
In the morning, though, I got woken up by a little tickle on my chin. So I open my eyes, and there’s Billy Pratt, kneeling over me, seeing how far he can make a stream of my drool stretch.
“Grab a life jacket!” he says when he sees my eyes open. “We’re gonna drown!”
Gabby and Cricket giggle while I wipe my mouth and bolt upright.
And that’s when I see that what I’ve been half hugging and drooling all over is the calf part of Casey’s leg.
“Oh!” I try to wipe his pant leg dry. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” And for the second time in two days, I wanted to shrivel up and die. I mean, I’d been the Sleep Zombie. I’d migrated over, used his leg as a pillow . . . and drooled!!
It was beyond embarrassing or humiliating or even mortifying.
It was ego-slaying!
And really, when your ego’s been slain, there’s only one thing to do.
Run!
So I bolted from the tent and went around in circles doing nothing for a minute, my ego-free mind frozen in my thick, drooly skull. Then I went over and checked on Marvin. Somehow I felt connected to him. Injured and ugly, we were birds of a feather.
He was pretty subdued, just sitting in the tent. I talked to him a little, but he just looked at me with sort of blank brown eyes. “We’ll get you some help,” I told him, then muttered, “Wish the same was true for me.”
Billy squatted beside me and slipped the last chunk of rattlesnake into the tent. “Don’t swallow it whole, big guy. I don’t know how to Heimlich a bird.”
“Do you know how to Heimlich a human?” Gabby asked, coming up from behind.
Billy grinned at her. “Choke on something and I’ll demonstrate.”
She huffed off, and since Casey was on his way over, I rushed away to help Cricket clean out the tent.
“Hey,” Casey said, catching up to me. “It was just a little drool—don’t be so embarrassed.”
“It was a lake.” I covered my face and took a deep breath. “My nose is fried, my lips are cracked, I’m a terrible camper, and I drool!”
He peeled my hands away and smiled at me. That’s all,
just smiled. But that smile said more than any words between us could have. He didn’t care that I was uglier than a sunburned warthog. He didn’t care that I was a miserable camper. He didn’t care that I drooled. So all of a sudden I didn’t feel uglier than a sunburned warthog. I didn’t feel like a miserable camper. Okay, the drool would always be embarrassing, but still . . . I just felt happy to be standing there with Casey’s hands wrapped around mine.
Happy to be soaking in his beautiful brown eyes.
His smile.
His . . .
“Would you two get over here and help us!” Gabby snapped.
We looked at her and Cricket, tearing down the people tent. “I think she’s talking to us,” Casey said with a grin.
“Yeah,” I said, grinning back. “Must be.”
After that I felt a lot better. And after we’d torn down camp, I decided to focus on helping Cricket get us back to the trail. So while she laid out the map and tried to figure out where we were, I used the binoculars to scout out the landscape. I climbed to the top of a big, crumbly rock formation and found out that I could see a lot farther. A lot more.
“You know what?” Cricket called up to me. “I think my compass is broken.”
“You’re kidding!” Gabby said, hovering over her. “How can your compass be broken?”
“Maybe when I stepped on my pack yesterday . . . ?” She handed it to her. “It’s telling me everywhere’s north.”
“Oh, great,” Gabby said after playing with it for a minute. “Just great.”
Now, the way she said it was really snotty. Really mean. So I called down, “Just use yours, Gabby.”
“I didn’t bring mine,” she snapped.
“Oh,” I said, looking at her through the binoculars. “So I guess this is all Cricket’s fault.”
It took her a minute, but when she got it, she screeched, “Shut up!”
“Sure,” I called back. “If you’ll quit snapping at everyone all the time.”
Without missing a beat she called back, “At least I don’t drool on people.”
I lowered the binoculars, studied her for a minute, then raised them again, muttering, “I definitely need to get out of here.”
Then I spotted something on the canyon wall behind where we’d made camp. Not directly behind—to the right a ways. It was an area of white rock with some shrubs and trees and stuff, but the trees were sparse compared to everywhere else. And the rock had strange formations. They were sort of long, flat openings. Like a bunch of fat-guy bellybuttons.