HOW NIBBLE TURNED DETECTIVE
The very first thing Nibble did when he got to the barn was to hunt up
poor Topknot. He had a hard time finding her. For he had to be very
careful himself, I can tell you. He listened and peeked behind every
corner, expecting to see the flashing eyes and snarling teeth of the
killer no one knew.
That was why the Bad Little Owl didn’t see him when he came flipping by.
“What’s he doing out this time of day?” thought Nibble. Then he saw, for
the little owl swooped down and staggered off with a furry yellow chick.
Its poor head was dangling, and it was such a load that he could
scarcely lift it above the bushes, and he steered more crookedly than
ever. As he passed a clump of burdock, out dashed Topknot, squawking and
screeching, and it was only by sheer luck that he escaped her beak.
“That owl never killed them, did he?” asked Nibble when he came up with
the hen.
“Not while I was with them,” she answered, ruffling up her feathers. “He
wouldn’t dare. No. It was a furry thing with stripes. He’d reach in his
paw and draw them out from under me--so gently at first I didn’t know
what he was doing.”
Now that certainly did sound a lot like Tad Coon. “Did he have a black
mask across his face?” Nibble wanted to know.
“It was so very dark I couldn’t see,” she clucked. “He had a bushy tail
and no matter where I tried to attack him he kept his back turned.”
No wonder Watch the Dog had thought it was Tad. Even Nibble felt
doubtful. He was a very sober rabbit when he hopped over to where Watch
and Tommy Peele were examining the chicks.
“They’re not all here. The killer’s come back for them!” Tommy was just
shouting excitedly. “We’ve been with him all the time, so it’s not the
coon. What is it?” But Nibble knew that the little owl had taken them,
and he certainly wasn’t the killer, either.
Watch sniffed very carefully. “It isn’t Tad’s smell,” he whined,
circling about. Suddenly he barked, bristling. “But it certainly is his
trail!” For there right beneath his nose was a hind footprint, something
like a baby’s, and very much more like Tad Coon’s. “He won’t fool me
again,” Watch raged. “I’ll fix him!”
“Wait a minute,” Nibble protested.
“That’s too small to be Tad. It might be another coon. No, no! It hasn’t
a handy-paw. Look!” For the print of the forefoot was clawed and padded
like Watch’s own, and not a bit like any coon’s.
Watch sat right down. This was too puzzling for him.
“We’ll find out yet,” Nibble encouraged him. “You look out up here--you
might catch him, red-toothed, any minute. I’m going to see what the
little owls know about him.”
But he didn’t tell why he was sure they knew.
Now if Nibble had gone straight to Doctor Muskrat and asked, “Who has a
hind footprint like a little coon’s and a front one like a dog’s?” the
wise old doctor would have told him in a moment.
But he didn’t. Because Tad was down at Doctor Muskrat’s Pond waiting for
him, to know if Tommy Peele believed him. How could Nibble say, “Well,
we’re pretty sure you told the truth, but we can’t find any one else to
lay it to. The real killer must be too smart for us.” So he just crept
into the Brushpile beneath the two little owls, asleep like two small
knots on their limb.
They slept late, for they had feasted on those chicks that morning. It
was almost dark before they stretched their wings and twiddled their
stumpy tails. “Have you seen anything of Stripes?” asked the Lady Owl,
polishing her beak on the rough bark, just the way you want to brush
your teeth before breakfast. “Or are you going back for another chick?”
“No,” answered her mate. “I’d rather follow him.” And he flew over to
the hollow in the fallen oak. “He’s gone!” he cried when he came back
again. “He’s been gone a long time. His scent’s quite cold.”
“That’s no sign,” she said cheerfully. “Stripes can leave less scent
than any fur I ever knew, when he pleases--and make more when he isn’t
pleased!”
Nibble almost squealed. “Stripes is a skunk! I’ve never seen him, but
Watch has. What a joke on that dog!” What Nibble had learned surely
would have burst out of him if she hadn’t added: “Never mind, we’ll find
him fast enough.” And off they flew.
“So will I,” chuckled Nibble, racing along behind them.
He’d have lost them in the dark, because they flew zig-zagging all
about, if they hadn’t kept calling to each other all the while. “Where?
Where?” they cried every other minute. Then “Here! Here!” shouted the
little he owl “Under the bridge!” And, sure enough, Nibble could see a
white thing moving around by the bridge across the brook that came out
of the lower end of Doctor Muskrat’s Pond.
He could make out the queer blotchy streaks of white that Stripes was
named from. The white tuft was probably the tip of his tail. Oh, yes, he
could see that skunk all right enough--but he couldn’t see someone else
who was hunting clams right beside Stripes. He could only hear.
“Get out! I’ve taken this hunting ground.” That was a horrid, snarly
voice.
“All right. Then I’ll be moving right along.” That was the fat, smily
voice of Tad Coon. In the dark you couldn’t see his stripes at all.
There was splashing.
“Ah! Wah! Yah! Gr-r-r-yah!” yelped the snarly voice. Then Nibble smelled
the awfullest smell you ever imagined--the smell of Stripes when he
isn’t pleased.
Nibble’s nose was twitching so fast he had to wipe it on the nice damp
earth, just as the little owl wiped her beak on the rough bark of her
perch. But he stayed there, squeezed in between the stems of a leafy
elder bush, trying to guess what had happened.
Pat-pat, came leisurely footsteps. “Uh-huh,” coughed a voice. Then
someone snorted. Nibble’s ears flew up; he knew that sound. Tad Coon was
trying to keep from laughing. Pat-pat, went his handy-paws, and then
there was a splashing and a scrubbing. Nibble hopped down to the pond,
and there was Tad squirming about in the damp sand.
“That you, Nibble?” Tad asked as he heard the soft lip-it, lip-it of
Nibble’s furry feet. “Keep to windward. Keep to windward, if you don’t
want to strangle, as I’m almost doing.” He was lying on his back and he
stopped squirming while he spoke. Nibble could see his limp paws fairly
shaking with laughter.
“Whew, I should say so! What happened? Did you have a fight with
Stripes?” Nibble asked curiously as he moved around Tad. “You aren’t
hurt, are you?”
“Hurt!” snorted Tad. “Of course not. Stripes Skunk won’t fight. He
doesn’t have to. He wouldn’t face any one anywhere near his own size--he
just turns around so you can’t find anything but the tip of his tail to
chew on. And that’s all shaggy, slippery hairs, so you couldn’t possibly
get a grip on it, and if you did he knows he could make you let go. He
has this scent,” Tad sniffed disgustedly, “and it’s worse than any bite
he could give because it shows all your enemies where you are.”
“But Watch was trying to follow Stripes, because he’s the killer of
those poor little chicks up at the barn, and he could hardly trail him
at all.”
“Of course not,” Tad giggled, “Stripes hates it himself. He’s so afraid
of getting it on his own fur that he won’t use it unless someone’s
foolish enough to plague him into it--like me,” he finished, sanding a
new spot to get it clean. “But Watch can trail him now.”
“What did you do?” My, but Nibble was curious to know.
Tad looked half ashamed, the way he always does when his tricks come
back on him. “Well, he just would turn his back on me--and he was so
rude and there was a mussel, such a big one, with a big sharp shell--so
all the time I was being so polite I was letting it close on the end of
his tail. And he couldn’t make it let go when he wanted to. My, but
wasn’t he scared!”
So that was Tad’s trick. It was certainly clever, but Nibble didn’t
sleep very close to him that night.