The Legend of Thunderfoot (4 page)

Thunder wanted to ask if he was leaving, but it was plain to see that he was. He wanted to ask if he was going back to his burrow. He didn't. He didn't want to talk to the tortoise anymore. He was too mad and too discouraged. So he just sat in the sand as Berland inched away.

The evening sun cast a long shadow from the creosote bush. Just beyond the shade, Berland stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Maybe I'll see you around, kid,” he called. “That is
if
you get off your lazy tail feathers and do something. You know, like hunt, or run, or practice flying.

“ 'Course, you keep sitting there, feeling sorry for
yourself, I'll see you in about a month or so. When I come back this way. Well . . . I won't really see you. I'll just see what's left of your lazy carcass after the buzzards and the fire ants are through with it.”

With that he turned and waddled on his way. Thunder felt his round eyes tighten to tiny slits. His head crest arched high.
LAZY??! He told me to get off my LAZY tail feathers? He said there'd be nothing left but my LAZY carcass? That's not a nice thing to say. I thought Berland was my friend. Even he's left me. Some friend. A real friend would never call another friend lazy. It's not fair. It's not right for him to say things like that!

All night he lay there thinking about what Berland had called him. He brooded about it, hearing the words over and over again in his head.

Brooding is a bad thing. Spending the whole night awake and puffed up about something another says is a big waste of time. But for Thunder . . . the more Thunder brooded, the madder he got.

The tip of the sun had not yet peeked above the mountains when the sound of thunder echoed across the desert. Okay . . . well . . . it wasn't
that
bad. But to Thunder, it was. Each time his big feet hit the ground, he could hear the
thud
! It seemed to drum inside his head like the roar of a spring storm.

When there had been enough light to see, he'd remembered. “Look before you leap.” There was no movement between the creosote bush and the first ridge to the east. He stood, stretched for only a second, and glared down at the empty burrow beside him. “Teach you to call me lazy,” he muttered. Then he raced to the ridge.

Each step felt heavy. His big feet felt thick, swollen, and hard to lift. Still, he ran just fine.
Maybe not as fast as he used to, but just fine. With each step, there was a loud
thump
when his feet struck the ground.

At the top of the ridge, he took a quick peek to see if he could find Berland. Far to his left, near some rocks, there were five kangaroo rats kicking sand at a sidewinder. Outnumbered and blinded by the flying, stinging sand, the snake retreated and left the rats' nest area.

Two collared lizards, bright green with black bands around their necks, were doing push-ups on some boulders, far to the right. Thunder guessed they were trying to impress the plainer-looking, speckled, brown female who watched. There was no Berland.

Thunder sprinted back to the creosote bush. Without even slowing to catch his breath, he spun and raced to the ridge again. Four times. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and . . .

The irritating, thudding, thumping, thundering sound went with him each time he ran. But already his legs felt stronger. In all four trips to the ridge, he never stumbled. Not even once. Glaring down at the empty burrow beside him, he sat beneath the creosote bush to catch his breath. “I'll show you,” he muttered again.

Berland had a head start. The whole night in fact. But as slow as the old tortoise moved, he'd catch him in no time. When he found Berland, he'd tell him what a rotten friend he really was. He'd let him know, in no uncertain terms, that he no longer was—and never would be—friends with any tortoise. He was so mad he might even use his beak to flip the stupid tortoise over onto his back. That would scare him. Teach him a lesson. Then—well, he wasn't
that
mad. He'd probably tip him upright before he left.

Trotting this time instead of sprinting, his feet didn't make quite as much noise as they pounded the desert sand. At the top of the ridge, he paused to take a good look before he continued on Berland's trail.

The two collared lizards were still doing their push-ups. The female egged them on with her own head bobs and nods. To the east, the kangaroo rats had driven off the sidewinder. They were busy gobbling prickly pear flowers, trying to fill their tummies before the sun drove them to the safety of their burrows. Between the lizards and the kangaroo rats, there was no motion except for grasshoppers and . . .

No, wait! Something . . . back to the north.

Sharp eyes focused.
Just the kangaroo rats,
Thunder decided. No! There was something more. A movement . . . only he couldn't quite tell . . .

A tuft of hair, not more than twelve to fifteen tiny strands that bunched together and rose to a sharp point. They wiggled, but only slightly, in the breeze. A sharp pointed ear. A second ear. A head—rising from behind a sagebrush so slowly it was almost like watching Berland walk. The head rose higher. Higher.

Bobcat!

The breath stopped in Thunder's throat. He didn't move. Didn't blink. Sure the yellow eyes were not on him, he quickly scanned the desert. Nothing else—only one bobcat. Less than an inch at a time, it moved toward the kangaroo rats. All their hopping around and sand kicking had driven off the sidewinder. But the commotion had attracted an even more deadly hunter.

When the bobcat sprang, it almost made Thunder jump. The kangaroo rats sprang, too. Their strong back legs thrust them into the air. Tails spinning to keep their balance, they hopped again the instant their legs touched the sand, this time in a different direction.

The bobcat landed on empty sand. It swatted
with a paw. The kangaroo rat was gone. The bobcat reached out the other paw. That kangaroo rat escaped, too, the bobcat's claws just barely missing the tip of its long, black-tipped tail. Rats ran and hopped in every direction. The cat pounced and swatted in every direction. When the dust finally cleared, all five kangaroo rats had made it back to the safety of their burrows, and the bobcat sat panting. Looking quite unconcerned, it sat down on its little stub tail, licked the top of its paws, and started cleaning its whiskers—as if it couldn't care less.

Thunder knew if he left the ridge, the bobcat would see the movement. He also knew that coyotes could run and trot for miles without getting tired, but bobcats were sprinters. Much quicker than coyotes, they could run only short distances. If he went to the right, away from the kangaroo rat burrows, the bobcat would see him. It would realize, however, that it could never catch a roadrunner. Not at this distance.

Thunder darted toward the collared lizards. At the rock outcropping, he stopped to check on the bobcat. It was still washing its whiskers. Suddenly there was a high, shrill clicking sound from beside him.

“Earthquake!”

The brown, speckled girl lizard slipped to a crevice between two boulders. The smaller of the male collared lizards stopped doing his push-ups. Eyes big and scared, he echoed the girl lizard's clicks. “Earthquake. Run for your life!”

The other male didn't run, though. Mouth gaping wide, he stood on the rock and looked down at Thunder. Then he started laughing. “That wasn't an earthquake,” he said, chuckling. “You guys need to come look at this bird. He's got the biggest feet I ever saw. They're huge! This is hilarious.”

Then he laughed and laughed and laughed, until Thunder thought he was going to fall off the rock.

When the desert sun rose high and the day grew so hot that the sand seemed to wave and ripple as if it were alive, Thunder found shade beneath some mesquite trees at the edge of a wide canyon. The day before, except for the horned lizard his mother had given him, he had eaten nothing. He'd been too busy pouting and feeling sorry for himself. But now, there was no need to hunt until the sun started down and it was cooler.

That was because the big, male, collared lizard had been quite satisfying. Satisfying—not only because he was so big he'd filled Thunder's tummy better than a whole field of grasshoppers, but because it had shut up his laughter.

As he rested in the shade, Thunder watched the wide canyon. There were no predators. No Berland.
In the evening he crossed the canyon. There were plenty of grasshoppers and a few cicadas. Those were easy to find, especially when they came from their cocoons. They stretched and fluttered their wings to dry them so they could fly. All Thunder had to do was watch for the movement.

Before nightfall, he found a high ridge where he could see in all directions. Maybe Berland was holed up in the shade someplace. During the cool part at the end of the day, he would probably be on the move again and Thunder would spot him. Then again, maybe he had already passed the old tortoise.

• • •

The next day, as he moved farther toward the rising sun, the land began to change. There was less sand, more short grass, mesquite, and sagebrush. When the day grew hot he rested in the shade at the edge of a huge thicket. Red berries dangled from the branches of the short bushes. Toward the center of the thicket, the brush was so dense he could hardly see through it.

It was a good place to rest . . . until he spotted the coyotes. There were two. They came from the south, trotting at an easy but steady lope. They were still a good ways off and hadn't spotted him.
So he decided it would be safer to move farther into the thicket.

A mouse must have scampered into some dry grass in their path. Both coyotes stopped, listened, then pounced. When their heads were down and their noses sniffing the grass, Thunder eased to his feet. He glanced one last time to make sure they were still busy trying to figure out where the mouse went, then darted into the thicket.

Running through heavy brush was different from running on the open desert sand. Mama and Daddy had told him and his sister this. One day, they had taken them to the arroyo. Since water flowed from the flats and streamed into the low places, many plants grew there. Instead of being sparse and spread out, shrubs and bushes were close together.

While Mama and Daddy watched for predators, he and his sister had practiced racing through the brush. He'd figured out that if he kept his wings tight against his side and ran crouched close to the ground, it was easier. It helped when ducking the low limbs. Of course, he had to hop over the limbs that were too low to duck, and dodge around others.

No problem. Roadrunners are so quick and agile they can dart through heavy brush faster than
most coyotes can sprint across the open sand. Trouble was . . . Thunder's big feet caught on everything. He tripped over limbs. Twigs cracked beneath his toes. He stumbled. Crashed into a fork of one branch, and had to back up to pull his neck loose. He ran harder. Staying clear of one trunk, he stubbed his toe on another. Tripped and slid on his chin. Clambering to his feet, he caught his toe on a root that sent him sprawling on his beak.

When he pulled it from the ground, he spit dirt for the next twenty yards. There was so much racket he couldn't even hear his feet thundering on the ground. A little over midway through the thicket, he stopped and looked back.

Sure enough, the coyotes had heard the ruckus. Thunder saw them trotting toward his thicket. Heads up and ears perked, they didn't move at a leisurely trot. They were coming quick—suspecting from the noise that there were at least twenty to thirty rabbits or something, just waiting to be their dinner.

Once clear of the horrible, tangled, treacherous thicket, Thunder stopped by a plum patch. His sharp eyes spotted the coyotes on the opposite side. They listened. Waited. When there was no sound, one started in while the other circled to the right.

Thunder sprinted from the plums to the left so the thick brush between them would help hide his escape. There was another plum patch about a hundred yards away. He made for that but didn't even think about going into it. Instead he circled, still trying to stay out of sight of the two coyotes.

It worked. Once past the plum patch, he found a small ridge. Crouching low, he ducked behind it and ran—but not as far as he wanted to. Struggling and fighting his way through the brush had been tougher than he thought. That and the hot sun that beat down, almost straight overhead, were almost enough to do him in. He stopped at the edge of the little ridge. Beak wide open and tongue dangling out, he gasped for air.

Coyotes don't hunt during the heat of the day
, he thought.
They rest in the shade like we do. What's wrong with these guys?
Easing to where he could stretch his neck to see over the crest of the little ridge, he sighted the two coyotes.

They were already at the second plum patch. Noses popping and close to the ground, they were trailing him, following a path around the plum patch, the same way he had gone. Panting, sucking the hot air as hard and fast as he could, Thunder could only hope he had enough energy
and speed left to outrun them if they . . .

Suddenly they stopped. Ears perked. Two heads snapped toward the plum thicket. A movement from inside the brush caught Thunder's eye. The cover was so thick he couldn't tell what it was.

The coyotes must have seen the movement, too. They raced into the thicket, crashing and crunching as their charge snapped limbs and twigs. The two of them were making almost as much noise as he had made with his big feet.

Whatever was there waited until they were well inside the plum thicket. Then it burst from the other side. Thunder's eyes flashed wide. It was a roadrunner. Not Mama or Daddy—this roadrunner was young, like him. It was . . . it was . . .

Thunder's heart leaped up in his throat. He held his breath. His eyes flashed wide in horror. Then he blinked.