Fiddler Fair (anthology)

 “What, dammit?” Hank Sayer snapped. “I’m tired! Unless you’ve got the chowderhead that left Dino and Gertie’s pens open”

“They weren’t left open, they were opened last night,” said the tech, his voice betraying both anger and excitement. “Some animal-rights yoyos got in last night, the security guys found them on one of the tapes. And the cleanup crews found what was left of two of them in the pit under Gertie’s pen and just inside Dino’s doghouse!”

That was more than enough to make Hank sit up and push his hat back. “What the hell—how come—”

The tech sighed. “These bozos think every animal is just like the bunny-wunnies they had as kids. I don’t think one of them has been closer to a real bull than videotape. They sure as hell didn’t research the Saurians, else they’d have known the Dino’s a land-shark, and it takes Gertie a full minute to process any sensation and act on it. We found what was left of the cattle-prod in the pit.”

Hank pushed his hat back on his head and scratched his chin. “Holy shit. So the bozos just got in the way of Gertie after they shocked her, and opened Dino’s pen to let him out?”

“After disabling the alarms and popping the locks,” the tech agreed. “Shoot, Dino must have had fifteen or twenty minutes to get a good whiff and recognize fresh meat. . . .”

“He must’ve thought the pizza truck had arrived—” Suddenly another thought occurred to him. “Man, we’ve got three Saurians in here—did anybody think to check Tricky’s pen?”

Alarm filled the tech’s face. “I don’t think so—”

“Well, come on then,” Hank yelled, grabbing his lariat and shooting for the door like Dino leaping for a side of beef. “Call it in and meet me there!”

Tricky’s pen was the largest, more of an enclosure than a pen; it had been the home of their herd of aurochs before the St. Louis zoo had taken delivery. Tricky was perfectly placid, so long as you stayed on your side of the fence. Triceratops, it seemed, had a very strong territorial instinct. Or at least, the GenTech reproductions did. It was completely safe to come within three feet of the fence. Just don’t come any closer. . . .

Hank saw with a glance that the alarms and cameras had been disabled here, too. And the gate stood closed—but it was not locked anymore.

Tricky was nowhere in sight.

“He wouldn’t go outside the fence,” Hank muttered to himself, scanning the pasture with his brow furrowed with worry. “Not unless someone dragged him—”

“Listen!” the tech panted. Hank held his breath, and strained his ears.

“Help!” came a thin, faint voice, from beyond the start of the trees shading the back half of Tricky’s enclosure. “Help!”

“Oh boy.” Hank grinned, and peered in the direction of the shouts. “This time we got one.”

Sure enough, just through the trees, he could make out the huge brown bulk of the Tricerotops standing in what Hank recognized as a belligerent aggression-pose. The limbs of the tree moved a little, shaking beneath the weight of whoever Tricky had treed.

“Help!” came the faint, pathetic cry.

“Reckon he didn’t read the sign,” said Buford, ambling up with both their horses, and indicating the sign posted on the fence that read, “If you cross this field, do it in 9.9 seconds; Tricky the Triceratops does it in 10.”

“Reckon not,” Hank agreed, taking the reins of Smoky from his old pal and swinging into the saddle. He looked over at the tech, who hastened to hold open the gate for both of them. “You’d better go get Security, the cops, the medics and the lawyers in that order,” he said, and the tech nodded.

Hank looked back into the enclosure. Tricky hadn’t moved.

“Reckon that’un’s the lucky’un,” Buford said, sending Pete through the gate at a sedate walk.

“Oh, I dunno,” Hank replied, as Smoky followed, just as eager for a good roping and riding session as Hank wasn’t. Smoky was an overachiever; best horse Hank had ever partnered, but a definite workaholic.

“Why you say that?” Buford asked.

Hank shook his head. “Simple enough. Gettin’ treed by Tricky’s gonna be the best part of his day. By the time the lawyers get done with ’im—well, I reckon he’s likely to wish Gertie’d stepped on him, too. They ain’t gonna leave him anything but shredded underwear. If he thought Tricky was bad—”

“Uh-huh,” Buford agreed, his weathered face splitting with a malicious grin. Both of them had been top rodeo riders before the animal-rights activists succeeded in truncating the rodeo-circuit. They’d been lucky to get this job. “You know, I reckon we had oughta take our time about this. Exercise’d do Tricky some good.”

Hank laughed, and held Smoky to a walk. “Buford, old pal, I reckon you’re readin’ my mind. You don’t suppose the damn fools hurt Tricky, do ya?”

Faint and far, came a snort; Hank could just barely make out Tricky as he backed up a little and charged the tree. A thud carried across the enclosure, and the tree shook. “Naw, I think Tricky’s healthy as always.” “Help!” came the wail from the leaves. Hank pulled Smoky up just a little more.

And grinned fit to split his face.

This wasn’t the best day of his life, but damn if it wasn’t right up there.

Dumb Feast