Читать книгу The Kite Mystery - Mary Adrian - Страница 5

THE SCHOOL BUS bounced along a gravel road in the March afternoon sun. Duke leaned forward on the front seat and watched the driver wiggle a toothpick in his mouth. He moved it up and down with quick jerky motions and then swung it from side to side like a dog wagging his tail.

Duke was fascinated. He reached into his pocket for a toothpick that he had been saving, and tried to imitate Mr. Brooks. Duke did fairly well until the man slammed on the brake to avoid hitting a grouse walking across the road. Then Duke’s toothpick popped out of his mouth and landed on the floor. As he picked it up, he bumped heads with Allen who was trying to rescue a jackknife that had slipped from his lap.

The boys were the same age—twelve years old. They looked alike—thin as bean poles, straight brown hair, and blue eyes. And they were interested in the same things since they lived on a wildlife refuge in Oregon where birds and animals made their days exciting. Duke Moore’s father was the manager of the refuge, and Allen’s dad worked there, repairing dikes and building roads.

Right now the boys saw a beautiful sight in the sky. Canada geese flying in V formation were heading for the refuge for a stopover on their journey north. They were the first flock the boys had seen that spring.

“Wow! The honkers are here, Mr. Brooks,” yelled Duke.

“It’s about time,” answered the driver. “The weather should get warm now. Good for my old bones.” He shifted gears and the bus jogged along.

Duke kept looking out the window. Soon another flock of honkers winged by. Duke strained his ears to hear their chatter since wild geese always gabble when they fly. “Shucks! If this old bus didn’t make so much noise, we’d be able to listen to those honkers talking.”

“Yeah,” agreed Allen. “This bus sounds like an old truck. I often wonder what honkers say to one another when they’re flying. Do you suppose that flock spent the winter in California?”

Duke shrugged. “Maybe they’ve come from Mexico. We’ll be able to tell if some of them are banded.” After a thoughtful pause he added, “It puzzles me how birds find their way when they migrate. Dad said that scientists are still trying to figure it out. Some think the birds are guided by stars and the sun. Now the western species of the American golden plover is the one that beats me. You know why? Well, those birds make a non-stop flight of over 2000 miles across the Pacific Ocean to Hawaii at migration time. Just think of that!”

Allen looked amazed. “Has a golden plover ever stopped at the refuge?”

“Yes. Several years ago there was one during fall migration.” Then Duke added breathlessly, “Boy, it sure would be wonderful to see Black-neck again.”

Black-neck was a snow goose that had visited the refuge last spring. Because of the unusual dark markings on his neck, the boys had given him a nickname.

“Maybe Black-neck won’t come this year,” piped up a voice behind them. It was six-year-old Candy. She was Allen’s sister—plump and round like an apple with curls the color of the sun. With her nose pressed against the windowpane, she gazed up at the sky, searching for another flock of wild geese.

Linda Moore was sitting next to Candy. She was Duke’s sister, nine years old, but she told everyone she was ten because there were only two months left before her next birthday. Her sandy-colored hair was as straight as a reed. It reached her shoulders and bounced up and down whenever she ran.

“I’m sure we’ll see Black-neck before long,” she said to Candy. “I’ll tell you why. I made a wish last night when I saw the first star, and my wishes nearly always come true.”

“They do!” Candy looked at her wide-eyed.

“Yes. I said, ‘Star light, star bright. You’re the first little star I’ve seen tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, receive the wish I wish tonight.’ ”

Candy clapped her hands with delight. “Say it again so I can learn it and make a wish tonight. Come on, Linda. Please, teach it to me.”

The boys paid no attention to the girls’ chatter. They were too busy watching more birds fly toward the refuge. Ducks trailed along the skyway in a straight line. They were followed by a flock of sand-pipers that scattered and looked like falling leaves. Then more Canada geese appeared, and Duke and Allen became excited all over again. To them there were no birds like the honkers.

Finally the bus stopped in front of a ranch house with an old windmill creaking in the yard. Cattle were grazing on bunch grass alongside the road, and a dog came running to meet a boy and girl getting off the bus. Duke and Allen called goodbye. The yellow bus moved on past some horses switching their tails behind a fence. After that marshes and a shallow lake came into view.

Duke knew they were approaching the refuge. A few moments later he saw the big sign at the entrance. NATIONAL WILDLIFE REFUGE was printed on it in large letters and underneath was the picture of a flying goose.

It was not long before Duke’s sharp eyes saw something else—something that made him give a loud screech. Allen almost fell off the seat. Candy jumped. And Linda leaned forward to find out what was the matter with her brother. Even Mr. Brooks was alarmed.

“What goes on here?” he asked in a loud voice.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Brooks,” apologized Duke. “It’s the trumpeter swans. Two of them are gone.”

Every afternoon on his way home from school Duke looked at four beautiful wild swans on the pond near the entrance of the refuge. Last fall they had been brought from a sanctuary in Montana to the Oregon wildlife refuge, and since there were few trumpeter swans in America, Duke had a special interest in the two pairs.

“Take it easy, Duke,” said Mr. Brooks. “You’re just imagining things.” He brought the bus to a slow crawl and glanced over at the pond.

“See. They’re not there,” said Duke. He was so upset that he was about to cry, but he took a deep breath instead. To shed tears was terrible, especially since he would be thirteen in six months. Just the same Duke could not control his feelings. His face was puckered with anxiety.

Allen tried to calm him. “Now stop worrying, Duke. Those trumpeters have probably gone into the rushes where you can’t see them from here.”

“I dont think so,” Duke replied. “The four of them have stayed pretty much together since they came here.”

“They might have flown away for a while,” said Candy, wanting to be helpful.

Duke shook his head. “They can’t fly because they’re pinioned. Dad clipped the trumpeters’ wings so that they would stay put. He wants to get a breeding flock on the refuge. Then, when the little trumpeters grow up and are five years old, they will have families of their own.”

Candy was impressed. “Little baby swans! That will be wonderful!” A second later after some thought, she said, “But the big trumpeters can walk, Duke. I’ve seen them. So maybe . . .”

“The missing ones went to the grain field near the pond,” finished Linda. “Sure. That’s where they are.” She gave her brother a reassuring pat.

Duke could not be comforted. As the bus moved along, another thought came to him. He sat bolt upright and cried out, “I’ll bet a poacher shot the trumpeters.”

“Poacher?” repeated Candy, puzzled. “Mother cooks poached eggs. She calls herself a poacher, but she doesn’t shoot birds.”

Duke forgot his troubles and burst out laughing with Allen. Linda giggled, a silly little noise, but it sounded pleasant.

Candy decided she had said the right thing until she heard Duke explain, “A poacher, Candy, is a man who breaks the law by shooting birds on a wildlife refuge. Several years ago there were poachers on this very refuge. The manager told Dad that, when we came here. He said they had a hard time tracking them down, too.” Duke clenched his fists. “A wildlife refuge is a place where birds and animals are protected from hunters. That’s why our government has set aside land in different parts of our country. Just wait until I lay my hands on the poacher. He’ll be sorry that he ever put foot on this refuge.”

Allen could not figure out Duke’s reasoning. “You’re not positive that the two trumpeters are gone, so how can you be so sure that a poacher was here?”

Duke frowned. Allen had a point. “Well, I’m not exactly certain,” he admitted.

At that moment the bus stopped at the refuge headquarters and Duke began getting off with the rest of the children.

“Let me know if you find those trumpeters,” the driver called after him.

“I will, Mr. Brooks.” Duke started running to his home, a low stone house with spring flowers growing in front of it. Linda raced after her brother. On the way Duke stopped and yelled to Allen who was heading with Candy to their house in back of the headquarters. “Get your bike, and we’ll go to the pond right away.”

“Okay,” Allen answered.

A short while later when Duke and Linda were ready to leave, Allen was not in sight. So they pedalled their bicycles down the gravel road to his house. Duke knocked on the front door and shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, waiting for someone to answer.

Finally Allen appeared, scowling and muttering to himself. Candy came a second later with tears streaming down her face. “I want to go along,” she wailed, “but Allen won’t let me.”

“I told you it’s because you don’t have a bike,” he explained, his voice sounding cross. “Every time I ride you on my handlebars, you bob up and down like a kangaroo, and I can’t see where I’m going.”

Candy blinked hard and wiped her face on the sleeve of her sweater. “I promise to sit still, Allen. You’ll see. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.” She tucked her hand in his and gazed up at him with pleading eyes.

Allen sighed and looked to Duke for support, but his friend was silent. “Well, all right,” he answered. “You will keep your promise, Candy?”

She nodded and ran to the garage for her brother’s bicycle. Then, all smiles, she wheeled it back to him, and they were off with Duke in the lead.

On the way Duke took over Allen’s passenger. Candy was delighted to ride on Duke’s handlebars. She did not budge, until he parked his bicycle near a boulder at the roadside. Then her short chubby legs hurried to keep up with him and the others.

“Wait for me,” she yelled.

Linda stopped and, after the little girl caught up with her, they raced on, hand in hand. A toad, who had just awakened from a long winter’s sleep, hopped to one side of the path.

Candy came to an abrupt halt. “I’m going to pick up the toad and keep it as a pet.”

“No, don’t,” answered Linda. “It might be a lady toad heading for the water to lay her eggs.” She pulled Candy’s arm, urging her to go on.

The two girls ran some more. They were all out of breath when they reached the boys at the edge of the pond. Two trumpeter swans moved silently on the water, their huge white wings folded against their backs. A bright red streak marked their black bills.

Duke glanced at the swans. Then he focused his binoculars on the rushes close by. He could see no sign of the other trumpeters there. Nor was there any indication that they were feeding in the grain field with some snow geese.

“I was right,” he said. “They’re gone.”

“Let me look,” urged Allen.

Duke handed him the glasses. Allen was not able to spot the missing swans, and neither were the girls after they had their turns with the binoculars. To make doubly sure, though, they all hurried to the rushes. Plop! A frog jumped into the open water as they approached, and a blackbird cried out noisily from some cattails. Anxiously, the children peered between the tall plants, but all they saw was a few tiny fish scooting about in the shallows.

Dejected, Duke went to sit on a log. The others followed, stringing themselves out one against the other. For several minutes nobody said anything. Then Duke, with his chin cupped in his hands, began speaking his thoughts aloud: “Gosh! I don’t understand why a poacher would shoot two beautiful rare birds. Trumpeter swans are the largest of our waterfowl and the heaviest flying birds in North America. That’s why it’s important to save the few that are left. Now two have been killed.” Duke groaned and said no more.

Allen looked at him in sympathy. He wanted to argue that no evidence had been found that the pair had been shot by a poacher, but he decided he would only make Duke more upset.

Linda was also silent, keeping her thoughts to herself, but not Candy. She wanted to go exploring. She slid off the log and was soon investigating a rock and some brush nearby. It was not long before she came running back to the others. “Look what I found!” She held out a light brown button in her dirty hand.

The boys and Linda examined the button carefully.

“Say, I’ll bet it belongs to the poacher,” said Duke. “You’ve got sharp eyes, Candy. You can ride on my handlebars any time.”

“And you can ride on mine, too,” added Allen.

Candy grinned from ear to ear. To be praised by the boys was very special. “There is something else alongside that rock,” she said, pointing to it. “Big footprints. Lots of them.”

This was all the boys and Linda needed to hear. They raced with Candy to the spot.

Duke’s eyes opened wide as he stared at the tracks. “I knew it! A poacher has been here. These are his footprints. Let’s look for a shell from his gun.”

Like bloodhounds, the children searched in bushes and along the banks of the pond for evidence. After a while the boys picked up some stones. Allen threw one in the water, but when the two remaining trumpeters bugled in alarm and started swimming away, he stuffed the others in his pockets. Duke did the same with his, but he was itching to throw just one. Maybe if the trumpeters went into the rushes, he would fling a stone and make it skip in the water.

At that moment Linda and Candy cried out in horror.

“Something is up!” Duke said to Allen.

The boys rushed over to where the girls were staring at two white feathers stained with blood.

“We found them in this willow thicket,” explained Linda tearfully. “A poacher must have shot the trumpeters.”

Duke looked at the bloodstained feathers and blinked hard to be sure he was seeing correctly. All along he had felt that a poacher had killed the birds, but at the same time he had hoped he might be wrong. Now, here was the evidence as plain as day, and since the poacher had killed two swans, would he not come back for the others? Duke’s thoughts were interrupted when Linda tapped him on the shoulder and said, “I know how you must feel, Duke. I loved those trumpeters, too.”

“So did I,” added Allen. “I can’t figure out why a person would shoot them on a wildlife refuge. Why, it’s the meanest thing he could do—kill two rare birds.” Allen kicked up some dirt with his foot. As he turned around, his face brightened. There in front of him was a trail of animal footprints.

“Hey, look!” he exclaimed. “Aren’t these coyote tracks?”

“They sure are,” answered Duke. “A pair of coyotes was here. See how the marks cross each other.”

Linda got down on her hands and knees and studied the prints closely. “Now we don’t know who killed the trumpeters.”

“That’s right,” answered Allen. “We don’t.”

He pulled a chewed-up pencil and a piece of paper out of his pocket. His mother’s old grocery list was written on it, but Allen decided he would jot down the clues on the other side.

Duke and Linda watched over his shoulder as he scrawled in large letters: BROWN BUTTON, MAN’S FOOTPRINTS, TWO BLOODY WHITE FEATHERS, PAIR OF COYOTE TRACKS.

“I can’t see what you wrote, Allen,” said Candy, standing on tiptoe. Then, realizing she could not read, she said to Linda, “You tell me.”

Linda repeated what Allen had written, and Duke said to him, “Good work. I’m relying on you to keep track of the evidence.”

Allen looked pleased. “I’ll rewrite the clues in a notebook later.”

“Yes, you do that,” said Duke. “We’ve got to work fast if we’re going to save the other swans.”

Linda tugged at her brothers sleeve. “We’d better tell Daddy what happened.”

Duke nodded. “It’s going to be tough to break the news to him. Well, come on, gang. Let’s move.”

“Yes. Let’s,” said Linda. Then she added softly to herself, “I’ll make another wish tonight that nobody kills the other trumpeters.”