Bartleby of the Big Bad Bayou (6 page)

Bartleby stared at the wounded foot. His throat quivered. “I've never seen an otter,” he admitted. “It must be a very dangerous creature.”

“Oh, yes, especially to a turtle. Otters love to eat anything in a shell.” In the time it took Bartleby to blink, Lucky Gal disappeared under the water. In another second, she reappeared on the other side of a lettuce plant. “To escape, you have to be quick and clever—and very, very lucky,” she declared.

“Bartleby is quick and clever,” Quickfoot said. She'd been so quiet Bartleby had nearly forgotten she was there. “He outswam four alligators in a race.”

“Harrumph! You expect anyone to believe that?” a voice croaked. “No turtle could swim so fast.”

Bartleby squinted into the floating lettuce patch. A large bullfrog was drifting among the plants. “You don't have to believe it, but it's true.”

“Quag-quog. Quag-quog.
Don't mind Big-Big,” called a voice from overhead.

“Quag-quog. Quag-quog.
Yes, that quarrelsome frog would doubt anyone—even his own reflection,” added another voice.

Bartleby looked up. Two great white birds with crooked necks and long beaks were perched on a branch overhead. He flapped his webs with excitement. “You're Plume and Billy, aren't you?”

“Glad to see you made it,” the larger bird said. “Plume and I enjoyed helping you outwit those racing gators.”

“Yes,” Plume agreed. “We were tickled to have a chance to spoil Old Stump's plan.”

Bartleby gazed at her huge wings and skinny legs. He'd never seen a more unusual bird. “Thank you. Without you, I would never have succeeded.”

“What?” Big-Big leaped onto a plant in front of Bartleby. He stuck his puffed-up chest into the red-ear's snout. “You didn't say you had help.”

“I didn't have a chance. I—”

“Harrumph! You said you swam here from up north. You said you beat four gators. I think you're just a big bragger.”

Bartleby held his head up high. “Of all the swamp creatures I know, bullfrogs are the biggest braggers.”

Big-Big's chest swelled up even further. “Why thank you very much.”

“But we red-ears are braver,” Bartleby finished. He turned to the turtles. More than anything, he wanted to be friends with them. “If you would just meet Seezer and Grub, you'd see they mean no harm,” he pleaded.

“I'm willing!” Lucky Gal paddled around to face the others. “And I have an idea. Let's have a swamp meet tonight.”

“That's exactly what
I
was thinking.” Big-Big hopped up and down on the lettuce plant. “Since we bullfrogs are the most hospitable creatures here, we'll be the hosts.”

“I suppose a little competition might be fun,” Digger said.

“As long as we don't have to work too hard,” Baskin drawled.

“I'll ask Seezer and Grub to come,” Bartleby said before the others changed their minds. “Er, what shall I tell them we're going to do at the swamp meet?”

“Why, croaking, leaping, and fly-eating, of course.” Big-Big dove into the water and began kicking away with his powerful flippers. “We'll soon find out who are the real champs of this swamp!”

Lazy as drifting logs, Seezer and Grub were floating beneath a giant willow when Bartleby found them.

“A ssswamp meet? That's sssilly!” Seezer snorted at the news. “We already know who the champs of the ssswamp are. No creatures are ssstronger than alligators.”

“He's right, little bro',” Grub agreed. “Croaking, leaping, and fly-catching? Those things are for frogs. Who cares about them? A real swamp meet should have wrestling and tail splashing.”

Bartleby squeezed between them and floated, too. “But if you don't come, they might think you're afraid to lose.” He didn't mention that he wanted to show Digger and Baskin that they'd been wrong—alligators and turtles could be friends.

“Ssscared to lose? Alligators against frogs and turtles? That's sssenseless!”

“Maybe, but there's a bullfrog named Big-Big who thinks he can make a bigger splash than an alligator. And there's a red-ear named Lucky Gal who won a fight with an otter.” Bartleby told himself it was all right to exaggerate a little, as long as it was for a good cause.

Seezer roared with glee. “Then they can sssplash and sssmash each other. That ssshould be very amusing.”

“That's a good one, bro',” Grub said, whacking the water with his tail.

Silently, Bartleby drifted away. He didn't see anything funny. A wave of homesickness washed over him. He wished he were back in the pond up north with friends that didn't treat him like he was silly or dinky. Bayou country was full of rude, unfriendly creatures. It seemed as if Seezer was becoming one of them.

 

Later, when the moon rose, Bartleby paddled toward the ring of cypress trees alone. The water reverberated with the sound of the bullfrogs singing their boastful songs.

“I thought you'd decided to forfeit the meet,” Big-Big called as Bartleby swam into the water-lettuce patch.

“We turtles don't give up.” Bartleby hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

“That's right—we're ready to play.” Lucky Gal paddled out from behind a plant with Digger and Baskin behind her. In the moonlight, Bartleby thought her ear patches looked even more fiery.

Big-Big rotated his bulgy eyes. “What about your gator pals?”

Bartleby looked down at the surface. “I don't think they're coming.”

“Harrumph! So their bellows are bigger than their bravery!”

“Rrrum . . . rrrum
...
rrrum!'
The water began to sway as bullfrogs all over the swamp croaked with laughter.

Big-Big leaped up onto a big bouncy lettuce. “Well, don't worry. We'll start with something easy. The croaking contest.”

“Rrrum . . . rrrum
...
rrrum!
Never heard a turtle croak,” the bullfrogs roared.

Splash! An alligator suddenly exploded into the center of the gathering. “Did I hear sssomeone sssuggest that alligators are poor sssports?”

Splash! Another alligator popped up. “I heard it, too, bro'.”

“Seezer! Grub! You're here!” Bartleby exclaimed.

“Sssertainly, I am,” Seezer replied.

“Wouldn't miss it, little bro'.” Grub waved his tail at Bartleby.

Big-Big's eyes looked as if they might pop out of his head. “You're too late! We've already begun.”

With the tip of his snout, Seezer splashed water at him. “You're not ssscared you'll lose, are you, bullfrog?”

Big-Big's wide mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. “Lose a croaking contest?” he said finally. “Harrumph! Of course not! I'll go first.” He took a deep breath. A bubble began to form under his chin. It grew from the size of a berry, to an acorn, to a dandelion puff. Big-Big strained and the bubble grew larger. Now it was almost the size of his head, and then, a wasp's nest!

Just as it looked as if Big-Big might burst, he let out a croak:
“Rrrum . . . rrrum
...
rrrum
...
rrrum
...
RRRUMMM!”

The earsplitting sound shook the water. It drummed against Bartleby's shell. He pulled in his head, squinched his eyes shut, and hid. When it was quiet again, he peered out at Big-Big. The frog looked as shriveled as an old leaf.

“Your turn,” Big-Big wheezed.

Seezer sank lower in the water. Only his tail and head were raised. As he took a deep breath, his throat began to swell. Bartleby heard a low, threatening rumble. The water trembled. Then came a roar. It was as loud as the sound of one of the giant metal birds that sometimes flew overhead.

“Grruh ... grruh ... grruh ... grruh ... GRRUH! GRRUH! GRRUHHHHHHH!”

The trees above the swamp shook. The birds flew out of their nests. Bullfrogs everywhere jumped out of the water and hid in the grass on the bank.

“Obviously, I am the sssuperior croaker,” Seezer announced when he'd run out of air. “I win.”

“Harrumph!” Big-Big rearranged himself on his throne of lettuce. “That wasn't a croak—it was a bellow. You were supposed to croak. You lose!”

Seezer flicked his tail against the surface. “Don't be sssilly. Alligators don't croak.”

Big-Big jumped up and down. “See—you admit it. I win! I win!”

This time, Seezer's tail smacked the water. “You wartssskinned ssswindler!”

“You scaly cheater!”

Seezer opened his jaws and emitted a long, chilly hiss. Silence fell over the pond as the glaring gator and the pop-eyed bullfrog locked stares.

With trembling webs, Bartleby paddled between the two opponents. “Stop! Please! Perhaps we should call it a tie.”

Crack! Seezer clapped his long jaws shut. “Oh, why not? Ssstrangely enough, I haven't had ssso much fun in a long time.”

“Harrumph!” Big-Big settled back onto his lettuce seat. “I'm sure I'm having more fun than you!”

When the contests, the arguments, and the feasting were done, Bartleby rested on the mud bank with the other red-ears. Together, they listened to the concerts the bullfrogs gave to boast of their skills at croaking and leaping, and enjoyed the twinkling lights of the fireflies. Digger and Baskin snacked on the juicy mosquitoes that swarmed the bank. But Bartleby had already consumed so many he ignored them. So did Lucky Gal. She was such a good eater that she'd won the fly-eating contest.

As the singing and chirping creatures began to quiet, Seezer and Grub disappeared in search of a last, whiskery catfish. Quickfoot retired to her hollow log at the edge of the swamp to curl up for the night. Digger and Baskin paddled off to bed down in the tall grass that grew in the shallows. But Bartleby remained on the bank beside Lucky Gal. He was too excited to sleep. He was brimming with questions about life in this place. Where were the best places to hunt for fish fry? Were there any snakes around? How far did the swamp go? But Lucky's limbs were tucked into her shell as if she were drowsing. Bartleby was afraid if he woke her, she might go away. Instead he soaked up the wonderfully humid air, and marveled at the yellow path the moonlight made on the surface.

“Come closer,”
the water seemed to murmur.

Bartleby blinked, but he couldn't see anything. He wondered if he was dreaming. It seemed as if the water were inviting him to swim along the golden trail.

“Closer.”

The call was irresistible. He rose on his webs and treaded down to the edge.

Plop! He heard a noise. Rings of circles formed on the surface. They glittered and danced in the golden light. He waded in to get a closer look.

Suddenly he froze. A dark, sleek shape was flowing through the water. It was coming toward him as fast as if it were flying. He tried to bellow, or croak, or chirp. But the only sound of alarm he could make was a turtle's soft grunt.

“Lucky—quick, hide!” he warned as he pulled into his shell. He hoped she heard him.

A paw with five webbed toes and five sharp nails snatched Bartleby up. A flat black nose sniffed him. “Is that you, Tender Toes?” it asked.

“Wh-who is Tender Toes? And who are you?” From inside his shell, Bartleby peered at the creature. It had a small round head with little half-circle ears. Its whiskers were longer than a catfish's. It smelled fishy, and musky, and dangerous.

“Silly! It's me, Fishguts, of course. I've come to finish what I started. Stick out your web!”

Bartleby curled his limbs up tighter. Above his plastron, his heart was leaping like a grasshopper. This creature had to be the otter that ate Lucky Gal's toes!

Fishguts licked Bartleby's carapace. “See? Green's not so bad,” he mumbled.

“Stop! Put me down,” Bartleby demanded.

“Sorry, Tender Toes! You got away from me once, but you won't escape again.”

“I'm not Tender Toes. I'm Bartleby of the Mighty Mississippi—and you'd better let me go.”

Fishguts held Bartleby up in front of his flat snout. “Oh, no—I couldn't do that. I have a yen for plump green turtles now. Especially one with three tender toes on her right rear web.” He curled his tongue and licked his whiskers. “Don't I look hungry?”

Bartleby peeked at the sleek-furred beast. Its nose was twitching as if it smelled something bad. “Not really,” he answered. “Besides, I haven't seen any three-toed turtles around here. Just tough ones like me.”

“Too bad. Well, I will just have to settle for you.” Fishguts raised Bartleby toward his open mouth. He touched Bartleby to his teeth. “Yum, I can't wait.” He put his paw back down. “Er, let's go for a dip. I'll eat you while I float on my back.” He grasped Bartleby tightly and slipped into the water.

“Harrumph! What do you want that rubbery red-ear for?”
a voice called.

Fishguts twisted his neck around. “Who's there?”

“It's
me, Lucky
Gal.
Your favorite three-toed
treat.”

To Bartleby, the voice didn't sound at all like Lucky Gal's. But it did seem familiar. He edged his head out a teeny bit so he could look around.