Demon Box

“I can climb, too–oo,” says the bear, and champs his big yellow choppers into a challenging chomp. Sally clicks back at him with her sharp little molars for a tick or two, then off! she shoots like the bullet out of a pistol. But right after her booms the bear like a meteor out of a cannon. Sally springs out of the creekbed like a silver salmon jumping. The bear jumps after her like a flying shark. She catches the trunk of the cottonwood and climbs like an electric yo-yo whizzing up a wire. But the bear climbs after her like a jet-propelled elevator up a greasy groove, and takes her over, and snags her up, and swallers her down, teeth toenails and teetotal.

And then, it so happens, while the big bear is hugging the tree and licking his lips, he sees! that he is eye-to-eye with a little hole, that is none other than the door, of the bedroom, of Tricker the Squirrel.

“Yessiree bob,” Tricker has to concede. “You also can sure as shooting climb.”

“WHO are YOU?” roars the bear.

“I’m Tricker the Squirrel, and I saw it all. And there’s just no two ways about it: I’m impressed—you may have been a little shortchanged in the thinking department but when it comes to running, jumping and climbing you got double portions.”

“And EAT!” roars the bear into the hole, “I’m BIG DOUBLE and I ate—”

“I know, I know,” says Tricker, his fingers in his ears. “The ridges raw and the hills whole. I heard it all, too.”

“NOW I’m going to EAT—”

“Gonna eat me up. I know,” groans Tricker. “But first I’m gonna run, right?”

“And I’m gonna run too–oo,” says the bear.

“Then I’m gonna jump,” says Tricker.

“And I’m gonna jump, too–oo,” says the bear.

“Then I’m gonna drink some buttermilk,” says Tricker.

“And I’m gonna drink buttermilk, too–oo,” says the bear.

“Then I’m gonna climb,” says Tricker.

“And I’m gonna climb, too–oo,” says the bear.

“And then,” says Tricker, smiling and winking and plucking at one of his longest whiskers dainty as a riverboat gambler with a sleeve full of secrets, “I’m going to fly!”

This bamboozles the bear, and for a second he furrows his big brow. But everybody—even shortchanged grizzerly bears named Big Double—knows red squirrels can’t fly—not even red squirrels named Tricker.

“Wellthen,” says the bear, grinning and winking and plucking at one of his own longest whitest whiskers with a big clumsy claw, “when you fly, I’ll fly too-oo.”

“We’ll see–ee about that,” says Tricker and, without a word or wink more, reaches over to jerk the bear’s whisker clean out. UhROAWRRR! roars the bear and makes a nab, but Tricker is out the hole and streaking down the treetrunk like a bolt of greased lightning with the bear thundering behind him, meaner and madder than ever. Tricker streaks across the Bottom toward the Topple farm with the bear storming right on his tail. When he reaches the milkhouse where Farmer Topple cools his dairy products he jumps right through the window. The bear jumps right through after him. Tricker hops up on the edge of a gallon crock and begins to guzzle up the cool, thick buttermilk like he hadn’t had a sip of liquid for a month.

The bear knocks him aside and picks up the whole crock and sucks it down like he was a seven-year drought.

Tricker then hops up to the rim of the five-gallon crock and starts to lap up the buttermilk.

But the bear knocks him aside again, and hefts the crock and guzzles it down.

Tricker doesn’t even bother hopping to the brim of the last crock, a ten-galloner. He just stands back dodging the drops while the bear heaves the vessel high, tips it up and gradually guzzles it empty.

The bear finally plunks down the last crock, wipes his chops and roars, “I’m BIG DOUBLE and I ate the HIGH HILLS—”

“I know, I know,” says Tricker, wincing. “Let’s skip the roaring and get right on to the last part. After I run, and jump, and drink buttermilk, then I climb.”

“I climb too–erp,” says the bear, belching.

“And I fly,” says Tricker.

“And I fly too–up,” says the bear, hiccupping.

So back out of the milkhouse jumps Tricker and off he goes, dusting back toward his cottonwood like a baby dust devil, with the bear huffing right at his heels like a fullblown tornado. And up the tree he scorches like a house a-fire, with the bear right on his tail like a volcano. Higher and higher climbs Tricker, with the bear’s hot breath huffing hotter and hotter, and closer and closer, and higher and higher till there’s barely any tree left … then out into the fine fall air Tricker springs, like a little red leaf light on the wind.

And—before the bear thinks better of it—out he springs hisself, like a ten-ton milk tanker over the edge of a straight-down cliff.

“I forgot to mention,” Tricker sings out as he grabs the leafy top of that first suntouched hazelnut tree and hangs there, swinging and swaying: “I can also trick.”

“ARGHH!” his pursuer answers, plummeting past, “AAARRG—” all the way till he splatters on the hillside like a ripe melon.