Sammy Keyes and the Wild Things by Draanen Wendelin van

Author:Draanen, Wendelin van [Draanen, Wendelin van]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Young Adult, Childrens, Contemporary
ISBN: 9780375892196
Amazon: 0375892192
Goodreads: 7043773
Publisher: Yearling
Published: 2007-05-08T07:00:00+00:00

We headed back toward the Lookout the same way we’d come, only everyone agreed that without a compass, we wouldn’t be taking any shortcuts.

We did try shouting up to the Lookout a few times, but since we couldn’t see it or hear our voices echo, we quit. What was the use?

When we got to Miner’s Camp, the Camo Creeps were still there. It was like they hadn’t budged since we’d been there the day before. I took one look at them and kept on trucking, but Casey called, “You guys see anyone on horseback come through here yesterday?”

They just stared.

So Casey stepped off the trail toward them and said, “It’s important. Did you see a guy on a horse come through here yesterday?”

They all glowered at him, and the biggest one growled, “This is our camp, kid—get out.”

And I couldn’t believe it, but Casey went even closer. “Look, man. Someone’s been taking potshots at condors.” He pointed toward me. “We’ve got a wounded one right here. We think it was a guy on horseback. Can you help us?”

Slowly they all stood up and started coming toward me. “Are you serious?” “You got a condor there?” “A thunderbird?” “You joshin’ me?”

So we showed them Marvin and they showed us a lot of dirty teeth as they smiled and took turns looking at what was apparently the eighth wonder of the world.

“Yeah, we saw a fella on horseback,” one of them finally said. “Yesterday. Around suppertime. He was riding a chestnut mare, blue and tan blanket under the saddle.”

The other two looked at him, then started chiming in.

“That poor horse was overloaded.”

“Saddlebags out to here.”

“And the cat riding her was wearin’ shades and a hat.”

“That’s just not right. You wear one or the other.”

They all nodded. “Not both.”

“Unless you’ve been city-fied.”

“Or sissy-fied,” the biggest one said with a laugh.

I was hanging on their every word. “Did the guy say anything?”

“Not a word.”

“Just rode on through.”

“Yeah. And he switched that poor filly every step of the way.”

I thought about this a minute, then asked, “What about clothes, hair color, anything else . . . ?”

“Well, he had on that hat,” the big one said, looking at the others.

“So it’s hard to know about the hair.”

“He coulda been bald fer all we know. . . .”

“But he was wearing ridin’ gloves.”

“And cowboy boots.”

“And, a-course, jeans. . . .”

“And a T-shirt. It was green, wasn’t it, boys?”

The other men nodded. “Olive green.”

Then they all glanced at each other. “That’s about it.” A crow cawed at us from the branch of a tree. The big man gave it a disgusted look and muttered, “Outta this campsite, ya oversized flyin’ cockroach.”

I snickered, which made him grin at me and say, “Bottom of the bird barrel in my book.” He shot a look at the crow again and told it, “Go back to the rest of your murder, why don’tcha?”

“Back to your murder?” Gabby whispered, her eyes wide.

Cricket told her, “Flock of seagulls, murder of crows . . .

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