Marty dropped back, coolly trying to decide where to attack next.
In that moment, Ereth stole a quick glance to see how far he was from the trees. He had covered half the distance, but it felt as if they were still miles away.
As Ereth struggled to decide what to do, Marty took another hard lunge at him, trying to knock him over. This time he missed completely and went sprawling in deep snow.
Sensing his opportunity, Ereth hurled himself toward the trees. He was beginning to think he was going to make it, when he received a hard smash on the left side.
The stroke came so suddenly, so intensely, Ereth landed hard against an old stump, the wind knocked completely out of him.
Feeling increasing pain and growing even more muddled, Ereth knew that he must get up and defend himself.
He could not.
The best he could manage was to open his eyes. He beheld a dreadful sight. Marty the Fisher was crouching a few feet away. His face bore a cruel grin. “Now I have you,” Marty hissed.
“Help!” Ereth gasped. “Help!”
“You’re done, porcupine,” Marty snarled. “Completely done. No one, absolutely no one, escapes Marty the Fisher.”
Ereth strained to get up again. The pain was too great. He was too weak. He was bleeding too much. “Please,” he bleated. “I need some help . . . please. Someone help me.”
As Marty the Fisher prepared his final, fatal spring, Ereth closed his eyes. “Goodbye, Poppy,” he whispered. “Farewell, kits!”
He opened his eyes to see the fisher, claws fully extended, leaping at him.
The next instant there was an explosion of red. It seemed to come from nowhere, and yet it was everywhere all at once. Thinking it was his own blood he was seeing, Ereth squeezed his eyes shut. Then he heard the yelping, barking, and snarling.
Ereth opened his eyes and blinked with astonishment.
Tumble, Nimble, and Flip had burst from the woods and leaped upon the fisher, taking him completely by surprise. What’s more, they were pummeling him with all the ferocity they could muster.
Tumble, with jaws tightly clamped, was holding on to the scruff of the fisher’s neck and shaking hard, all the while grunting and snarling. Nimble had taken a fast hold of one of the fisher’s legs and was refusing to let go, no matter how much the beast thrashed. As for Flip, he had a firm grip on the fisher’s tail and was growling and yanking and pulling with all his might.
In seconds it was Marty the Fisher who was on his back, kicking and clawing frantically, trying to get away.
A weak, dazed Ereth could only mutter, “Welcome the wombats and bless all bees!”
Suddenly Marty the Fisher gave a mighty yank and freed his leg from Nimble’s grasp. Though Tumble was still clinging to him and Flip refused to let go, the fisher staggered to his feet. With a violent shake, he flung Tumble away. Then he turned and snapped savagely at Flip, who was forced to let go of the fisher’s tail.
Free at last, Marty, instead of staying to fight, whirled about, leaped through the bushes, and fled among the trees.
The kits, tongues lolling, chests heaving, watched him go. So did Ereth. For a moment there was nothing to hear but the sound of the fisher smashing through the underbrush. Next there came the distinct, dreadful sound of a metallic snap.
CHAPTER 26
Marty the Fisher
NO ONE MOVED. Not Ereth. Not Tumble, Nimble, or Flip. Instead, they all stared in the direction that Marty the Fisher had gone.
“What . . . happened?” Nimble said at last, though she as well as everybody else was pretty sure.
Tumble, trembling visibly, began to edge forward, his nose extended, sniffing.
“Careful!” Ereth cried out from where he lay. “There may be more traps about. When I checked there were none left under the cabin.”
“Do you think he got . . . caught?” Flip asked.
No one replied. Instead, the three kits crept forward into the brush. Hauling himself up, Ereth limped painfully along.
“Look!” Tumble cried. He had managed to get ahead of the others.
The two other kits went forward. Ereth came last.
What they saw was the large box trap from under the cabin. Inside—very much alive—was Marty the Fisher. In his haste to get away he had rushed blindly into it. The moment he did, the doors at either end snapped shut.
The three kits and Ereth crept closer, their eyes glued to the sight.
Marty, his face bearing a look of terrible rage, glared out at them. “Don’t just stand there gawking,” he snarled. “Get me out of here!”
Neither Ereth nor the kits replied.
“You don’t understand,” the caged animal said, speaking with barely suppressed fury. “I’m from the great fisher family. No finer animals in all the world. We’ve been hunted down everywhere by humans because of our fur. Even dolts like you must be capable of seeing how beautiful I am. We’re so beautiful there are very few fishers left. Every time one of us is killed or captured, the chances of our survival are reduced. If you let them take me away, we fishers shall be almost extinct. Now, get the cage open.”
“But . . . you were trying to kill Ereth!” Nimble protested.
“Of course I was,” returned the fisher.
“But . . . why should you want to do that?” Flip asked.
“Because,” returned Marty proudly, “only fishers are smart enough to deal with porcupines. Now stop yapping and open the trap!”
The kits looked to Ereth.
“I . . . don’t know how to open it,” Ereth said.
“You blundering idiot!” Marty the Fisher cried out. “Can’t you do anything right? Open your eyes. There’s a rod lever on top. Push it down. It’ll open the trap doors. The four of you can do it easily.”
Once again the three kits looked to Ereth, waiting for him to decide.
“Fumigated goat fidgets,” Ereth muttered, not knowing what to do.
“Will . . . you promise not to hurt Ereth?” Tumble asked.
“And just go away and leave us alone?” Nimble added.
“I don’t make deals with anyone,” the Fisher shouted. “Just get me out!”
The kits turned
