Roolo peered intently through the rain, shading his eyes against the pelting drops. “Maybe, Mr. Spits, maybe,” he replied, seeming more to sense what Bomper was pointing out than to actually see it. “You lead the way, Mr. Spits, I’m only lucky enough to see my own nose. This cartnapp-wolloper-digglebust rain will blind me in both ears if it don’t let up soon!”
As they moved on, Helga became aware of what had drawn Bomper’s attention. It was not a sight, but a sound—a faint clink-clink-clink as if small stones were being tossed. The clinking pattern was unnatural. Surely some beast was making the sound. Who was it? And why?
It did not take long to discover the source of the sound. As the band of travelers proceeded, the direction of the sound became more certain, and following the sounds, Bomper led the group off the road and up a deep and narrow rocky ravine. They had not gone more than a dozen paces when there was a sudden movement and an explosive WHING-WHOOP-WHIZZ noise. To everyone’s astonishment, Bomper was suspended about thirty feet in the air!
“Flamin’ bee-whimmers! What a ride!” Bomper laughed, cradled neatly in a net sack made of heavy-cord. The sack obviously had no exit, the top being pulled tightly closed by ropes. Bomper’s footsteps had triggered some manner of trap, and a very effective one it was. In addition to the sack being tightly closed, he was too far in the air for his friends to be of much immediate help. It would take some considerable thought to get him down safely.
Twisting slowly in the driving rain thirty-feet in the air, his comrades calling to him anxiously, Bomper realized his predicament was not simply fleeting fun. He had just reached this realization and gathered some choice oaths to hurl at his comrades, when his sack began to rise rapidly. Someone was pulling on the rope from which Bomper was suspended.
Bomper’s ascent was so rapid that he had no time to gather his wits. In short order, the sack that held him captive was hauled into a wide, roomy cave running deep into the side of the ravine. “Quite a sorry thing, old binger!” said a short, squat Coyote with a red handlebar moustache, flashing dark eyes, and a jovial smile as he quickly opened the sack and released Bomper. A snug-fitting cap was pulled low over his head and he wore coarse dungarees and a heavy homespun shirt.
“Can’t be too careful—there’s Wrackshees running all about. The track through the ravine is one they used to use sometimes. He-He-He...but I put an end to that...He-He-He. My warning trap lets them know they had best not go further or they’ll set off my boulder dropper. He-He-He. Yes, well, at least you didn’t set off my boulder dropper—but, then, that’s got to be triggered by more than the likes of such a scrawny bone-bags as you.”
The Coyote’s dark eyes flashed with merriment. “But, even so, old binger, I think I’ll disconnect the trigger rope on the boulder dropper—wouldn’t want to be a bad host. They’re really quite nice boulders—the Wrackshees pretty well leave me alone. He-He-He.”
The Coyote walked over to where a number of thick ropes were looped through a series of iron rings pegged deeply into the cave wall. The ropes went off in different directions. “Let’s see—the boulder dropper would be the blue one.” Grasping a rope with a blue mark painted on it, he tied the rope securely with a complex knot.
“There,” the Coyote said turning back to Bomper. “Your friends down there would think I was a very bad host,” the Coyote chuckled, “if they triggered the boulder dropper. He-He-He. Well, yes—how about a pot of Wheeze and a few shells of Slicker to welcome you to my humble home? But I suppose I should invite your friends to have some, too. So, if you will just step over to the hearth and make yourself at home, I’ll bring your friends up in a wink.” The Coyote motioned to a sturdy cobblestone fire circle that had been built to one side of the cave. Piles of soft pounded-bark blankets invited lounging around a small, cheery fire. A sharp but inviting aroma came from a blackened copper pot, bubbling and steaming as it hung from an iron tripod above the fire. The pungent aroma from the pot added a twang to the dominant odor of wood smoke that clung to everything in the cave. A haze of smoke swirled across the roof of the cave as it slowly found its way to the cave opening, where wisps slipped away to the outside.
Soon Helga and Roolo joined Bomper in the cave. An amazing and well-designed system of simple pulleys enabled the warning trap to lift considerable loads. Once in the cave, all slumped under blankets or crouched as near to the fire as they dared, trying to force the deep, biting cold from their bodies. When the band of travelers had settled comfortably in the cave, the Coyote asked for quiet, went to the cave entrance and listened for any telltale change in the noises of the falling night that might betray Wrackshee movements. Hearing nothing unusual, he carefully reset the warning trap repeating, as before, “Can’t be too careful.”