Bookweirder by Paul Glennon Page A

for the chase. Norman could just keep up, but the Cooks were falling back quickly. It didn’t matter to Norman. All he could think of was rescuing Malcolm. It probably didn’t matter to George, either. George had never met a criminal that he could not take on single-handedly.
    Ahead of them all, the big man smashed through the forest, his heavy boots crushing twigs and brush beneath him, his bulk whipping and snapping branches as he ran.
    Suddenly there was a shout or a surprised grunt. He had fallen into the trap.
    Norman and George skidded to a halt. Both boys lifted their flashlights to illuminate the huge old pine tree that spanned the path. The big poacher should have been up there. He should have been dangling by his foot from the thick rope they’d tied to the overhanging branch—but there was no overhanging branch.
    They dipped their flashlights, swinging their beams across the forest. There in front of them, lying across the path, was the branch. Beside it lay the poacher, who looked as though he was just recovering his senses after a nasty fall. The branch had snapped under his weight.
    “Stop there, you!” George commanded in his usual tone of offended authority.
    The big thief pulled himself to a sitting position and began tugging at the rope around his ankle.
    “I said stop. Stay where you are!” George repeated haughtily.
    The man in the red bandana looked up. His eyes wild with anger, he spat out an insult that Norman had heard once or twice on the playground but never in a book. The poacher was nearly loose from the trap now—a few more tugs and he would be free.
    George just cried, “Get him!” and dove at the captive poacher. Had he thought about it, Norman would have stayed back. But he acted instinctively. This was the man who had captured and tortured his friend.
    Norman hurled himself at the thug, but the big man just shrugged off his tackle. Norman heard an “umph” that might have come from him or George as they both tumbled to the ground. The poacher resumed his efforts with the rope.
    George struggled to his hands and knees and launched another attack, grasping the man’s arm. Nelson barked and nipped at the big man’s heels. Their efforts barely slowed the struggling giant.
    Norman thought for half a second about how dangerous this was, then he grabbed the villain’s other arm. The three struggled together for a few more moments in an uneven wrestling match.
    The poacher was too strong and too mean for them. One vicious swing of his elbow caught George in the ribs. The boy hit the ground with a gasp. He lay there stunned for a moment, holding his chest.
    A heavy boot caught Nelson in the hip. The dog yelped and skittered away sideways. Taking a position between his master and the poacher, the collie bared his teeth and let out a low growl, but kept his distance. Norman clung to the poacher’s back, making futile grasps at his arms. He felt himself rising as the poacher undid the last of the knots and staggered to his feet.
    With one furious twist the poacher shook Norman from his back, flinging him violently to the ground. Norman winced and peered fearfully up at the bald criminal who loomed over him.
    “Stupid brat,” he snarled. “You tryin’ to get yourself killed?” His accent reminded Norman of the noisy New York police station in
The Magpie
.
    Suddenly the look in the poacher’s eyes changed. “Rams? That’s a Rams jersey,” he growled. He grabbed the shoulders of Norman’s sweatshirt and shook him. “Where’d you get this?” Norman stared back uncomprehendingly as the bald man’s anger swelled. “You tell me where you got that shirt, kid, or I’ll knock your teeth out.”
    “My … my … my mom,” Norman answered, confused and scared by the question. What did his shirt have to do with anything?
    The poacher’s eyes opened wide and stared manically.
    The guy is crazy, on top of everything
, Norman thought.
He’s going to kill me because I’m wearing a