The Badger War

By Scott W. Guttormson

The international animal trafficker known as The Rooster sights his rifle on a black bear rooting for grubs in a decaying silver maple tree in the woods of Nebraska. Black bear organs fetch a high price on the black market.

Hiding nearby, investigative reporter Alexander Henry trains his camera on The Rooster.

Suddenly, a massive cloud of leaves and debris swarms over The Rooster. The startled bear runs away from the commotion, directly towards Alexander Henrys hide.

Despite his fear that The Rooster may have discovered him, Mr. Henry decides that encountering the frightened bear is a bigger threat and bolts away. As he jumps a fallen log, a searing pain shoots down his leg.

Someone has shot the reporter with a tranquilizer dart.

When the drug wears off, Mr. Henry finds himself a captive in an underground cell. But why would anyone want to hold him prisoner?

In answer, a Jacobs slot on the solid prison door opens, and in waddles a badger.
The baffled and alarmed reporter now wonders, Why would they stick a live badger in a prison cell with me?

So he holds out his hands in a non-threatening manner, and attempts to befriend the badger. There there. Good girl. Nice badger. I will not hurt you.

The badger rises up on her hind legs, eyes the man curiously, and places her paws on her hips. Mr. Henry, the badger replies. We should be making those same assurances to you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Dec 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781490719863

Scott W. Guttormson

Benjamin Franklin personifies the American ideal. He was an inventor, a publisher, an author, an entrepreneur, a scientist, and a philosopher. And most importantly, he was a self-made man. Having brilliant and independent pre-teens in the house, I was inspired to imagine what a teenage Benjamin Franklin must have been like. Thus the Cardboard Box Children series was born. Drawing on research into Benjamin Franklins life, I introduced teenage Ben to my kids in the same historical context. From there, the story naturally and organically grew. This is meant to be a fun, inspiring summer read, perfect for a few hours on the beach or during a short flight. For those familiar with Benjamins life and colonial Boston, the story is riddled with historical references and foreshadowing of things to come in the great philosophers life. Most of the story was written during travels between Japan, Papua New Guinea, and Australia, during an expat assignment, to fill the void of missing my family and to try to capture the emerging personalities of my wonderful children.

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Copyright 2013 Scott W. Guttormson.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

isbn: 978-1-4907-1985-6 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4907-1987-0 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4907-1986-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921189

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Trafford rev. 12/13/2013

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North America & international

toll-free: 1 888 232 4444 (USA & Canada)

fax: [phone]

This is dedicated to all of the four-legged friends that I have ever known,

to my brother Brett for proofing an early draft and providing key advice that has made a vast improvement to the story,

and to Gary Ash who asked to read the manuscript many many years after it had been lost in a drawer, which inspired me to have the work published.

OACC

FOREWORD BY THE EDITOR

W hen I first got the telephone call, I could not believe my good fortune. One of the most famous men in the world had personally just asked me to visit him. This is a man that no one had even seen in 25 years. This is a man who has never even given an interview. And this man had just asked me to intervie w him!

He claims that he feels that the revolution had stalled. And at the end of his time, his story could inspire a new generation.

So I was to interview the great man before the final ravages of time spread him too thin.

Imagine my bewilderment and frustration when I reach his secluded cabin and no one answers my knock.

Naturally, filled with anticipation and curiosity, I check the door, and find it unlocked.

On the far side of the cabin, a Victorian highback chair faces a smoldering fireplace. From behind, all that is visible of Alexander Henry is his left arm resting akimbo on the armrest of the chair. Alexander Henry, War Scribe for the Badger Conflict. When I move around the chair, I am confronted with an unexpected sight. Startling.

Mr. Henry’s attention is fixed on the dying fire before him. His eyes are glazed. I examine this man who had spent his life embroiled in one of the most encompassing revolutions in Earth’s history. The famous blue-steel Colt that fired the last shot of the war sits in his lap, cradled in his hands. I am immediately beset by bewildering feelings—from devotion to sadness to loss to pride to conviction to excitement.

I was to interview the great man. He said that the ravages of time had caught him and he wanted to spend his last days reminiscing and finalizing his record. Finally telling his story. Alas, that we had that chance.

At the War Scribe’s side, upon a small end table, is a manuscript; the journal of his experience. The Scribe wanted to have his story published. In the interest of brevity, I have edited the baser elements from the journal. What follows is the abridged manuscript, as laid before me, by the great scribe.

Scott Guttormson

Editor, The Badger War

The Journal of

Alexander Henry, M.C.C., O.B.

M.C.C = Mustelidae Coalition Corps

O.B. = Order of the Blackguard

HENRY’S INTRODUCTION

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S omehow, lost in the speeches and the ceremonies and the politics and the trials, I never published my journal. So, I have endeavored to complete this work to tell my story.

The character studies that diffuse my actual journal have been included to help the reader identify more closely with the characters. These studies are indicated by the subtitle BADGERS AT PLAY. These studies are all based on fact and have been constructed from stories told to me by various parties throughout the campaign. I would especially like to thank Brata’s son, Rigger, for providing many of the filler details required to more accurately record these stories. Rigger and I spent many nights together after the war, reminiscing and exchanging ideas. I saw much of his father in Rigger, and was proud to see him become as wise a leader as Brata. So holding no misconception that the reader cares about my personal life or feelings, I will commence the work.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Part I    THE DART FLEW AND STRUCK THE MAN

Chapter 1    HERE COMES THE FLOOD

Chapter 2    PRISON

Chapter 3    IN THE PRISON CELL, HENRY MEETS HOOD

Chapter 4    HISTORY LESSON: DESCRIPTION OF AMERICAN BADGER

Chapter 5    BADGERS AT PLAY: YOUNG BADGERS FLEE FROM DEN

Chapter 6    BADGERS AT PLAY: THE BADGERS’ FLIGHT REVISITED

Chapter 7    HOOD RETURNS AND GIVES FIRST LECTURE

Chapter 8    THAT NIGHT I DREAM

Chapter 9    BADGERS AT PLAY: EXPLORE OTTER POND

Chapter 10    INTRODUCTION OF HENRY TO A WOLVERINE

Chapter 11    HOOD GRANTS TOUR OF VAULT

Chapter 12    UNFRIENDLY EYES

Chapter 13    VAULT

Chapter 14    THE SKUNK IN THE VAULT

Chapter 15    BADGERS AT PLAY: SUNSHINE IN SEWARD’S GLEN

Chapter 16    HOOD GIVES TOUR OF ROOTED TUNNEL CLASSROOM

Chapter 17    HISTORY LESSON: DESCRIPTION OF THE AMERICAN BADGER DEN

Chapter 18    BADGERS AT PLAY: WOLVER, DUKE, AND THE DENMAKERS

Part II    ALEXANDER HENRY WANDERS THE TUNNEL

Chapter 19    HENRY STUMBLES ON SPEECH BY HEAD-FISHER

Chapter 20    THE MARCH FORESHADOWED IN THE CLOUDS

Chapter 21    BADGERS AT PLAY: SUNSHINE AND WILLOW TALK IN SEWARD’S GLEN

Chapter 22    HISTORY LESSON: DESCRIPTION OF FUR

Chapter 23    HOOD INTRODUCES HENRY TO THING-IN-ITSELF

Chapter 24    THING-IN-ITSELF DISCUSSES THE BIRTH OF TURTLE

Chapter 25    BADGERS AT PLAY: YOUTHFUL RIVALS

Chapter 26    THE CHARACTERS

Chapter 27    HISTORY LESSON: SCIENTIFIC FAMILY MUSTELIDAE

Chapter 28    DINNER PARTY WITH HOOD

Chapter 29    BADGERS AT PLAY: PUCK AND WILLOW

Chapter 30    BADGERS AT PLAY: HARE BROTHER COLLECTS THE BADGER CUBS

Chapter 31    BADGERS AT PLAY: A MEALTIME STORY

Chapter 32    ROOTED TUNNEL EXPLORED

Chapter 33    HENRY RETURNS TO MEET LISP IN HIS ROOM

Chapter 34    ROOTED TUNNEL AGES

Chapter 35    BADGERS AT PLAY: THE TRIP TO THE TUNNEL

Chapter 36    BADGERS AT PLAY: ARRIVAL OF TRU’S TROOP

Chapter 37    BADGERS AT PLAY: HARE BROTHER TEACHES SELF-DEFENSE

Part III    THE PLANS SOLIDIFY

Chapter 38    THE BLACKGUARD LEGACY

Chapter 39    HEAD COUNCIL MEETING TO DISCUSS STRATEGIES

Chapter 40    SPLINTER MAKES DEMANDS AT HEAD COUNCIL MEETING

Chapter 41    THING-IN-ITSELF DISCUSSES HOW HUMAN STEALS MOTION GIFT

Chapter 42    STRIPE JAWTOOTH TAKES HENRY ON NIGHTLY FOOD HUNT

Chapter 43    THE HUNT

Chapter 44    THE GAME

Chapter 45    AUTHOR HENRY’S REFLECTION ON ANIMAL PROGRESS

Chapter 46    THE GREAT PROVIDER

Chapter 47    HOOD GRANTS TOUR OF INFIRMARY

Chapter 48    HELTI CONFESSES

Chapter 49    LITTLE BIT AND FRI MARRIAGE

Chapter 50    DINNER WITH LITTLE BIT AND FRI

Chapter 51    BADGERS AT PLAY: TRU AND LITTLE BIT ADVENTURES

Chapter 52    THE AGE OF CARRION

Chapter 53    THE RISE OF THE THIRD

Part IV    This Is My Land

Chapter 54    SPLINTER DECLARES WAR

Chapter 55    HEAD COUNCIL DISCUSSES PREPARATIONS

Chapter 56    THE NEXT MORNING

Chapter 57    THAT NIGHT’S HEAD COUNCIL MEETING

Chapter 58    SAMMI SPEAKS

Chapter 59    THING-IN-ITSELF’S FINAL VISIT

Chapter 60    THE FINAL MORNING IN ROOTED TUNNEL

Chapter 61    THIRD COUNCIL MEETING UNDER NEWLY-TITLED HEAD-FISHER

Chapter 62    LEAVE THAT NIGHT

Chapter 63    CAMP

Chapter 64    WHAT ABOUT ME

Chapter 65    AND I DREAMED

Chapter 66    WHELM THE CITY

Chapter 67    TRU RALLIES THE TROOPS

Chapter 68    RESISTANCE ON A HILLTOP

Chapter 69    SPLINTER’S CURSE

Chapter 70    WAR

Chapter 71    NIGHT, AND REFLECTION ON SPLINTER’S PROGRESS

Chapter 72    VIEW OF WAR FROM THE EAST

Chapter 73    THE EXPOSURE

Chapter 74    SPLINTER’S CHARGE

Chapter 75    DISPATCH THE HUMAN

Chapter 76    WHITE FLAG

Chapter 77    MARTYR

Chapter 78    THUMB

Chapter 79    LAST SHOT OF THE WAR

Chapter 80    THE GREAT WHITE SPIRIT BEAR

Chapter 81    NIGHT REFLECTION

Chapter 82    THING-IN-ITSELF’S LAST LESSON-IMPANATION

Chapter 83    TRIBUTE TO THE FIRE-STARTERS

PART I

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The Dart Flew And Struck The Man

The dart flew and struck the man. The man yelped and dropped to his knees; turned and stared at the dart. The dart that had engaged him with that sole dart purpose. That sole purpose fulfilled now that the dart had sent its load coursing into the man’s blood. The projectile had delivered its load. The dart flew and dropped the man.

Chapter 1

HERE COMES THE FLOOD

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I n the woods of Nebraska, during the transformation from summer to autumn, a rifle barrel sticks out from a camouflaged blind. The cross hairs of the rifle are fixed on a female bear. The bear is wearing a curious red c ollar.

She is feeding to the north of the blind, which is cloaked in netting and camouflage. A secretive smile slithers across the rifleman’s face.

I am shrouded similarly in a ghimli suit, recording the hunter’s expression with a digital camera from a vantage point 100 meters to the northeast of the man. I had been tracking the black market trade for bear, and my work had led me here.

An investigative lead had identified Park Ranger Shelby Reeves as a person of interest. During surveillance, I witnessed an unknown man give Ms. Reeves an envelope. Ms. Reeves then presented the man with a state map highlighted with red circles and numbers.

The mysterious man would later be found to be the international exotic animal trafficker known as The Rooster.

After the exchange, the Rooster’s next stop was at an Army Navy surplus store, where he purchased camouflaged hunting fatigues and camping gear.

That night, while the Rooster slept at a local motel, I purchased an identical set of camouflage fatigues and camping gear, and returned to stake out the motel. Being an investigative reporter, I am always prepared with cameras, bags, binoculars, and most importantly, cash.

On the afternoon of the next day, approximately 100 miles from the hotel, I observe the Rooster point a rifle at a black bear rooting for grubs in the decaying mass of a fallen silver maple.

It had taken the Rooster only four hours to locate this bear. Amazed at the efficiency of this operation, I hold my breath.

The Rooster closes his left eye, thumbs the safety, and releases a half-breath. Suddenly, an explosion of dirt and twigs and leaves surrounds the poacher, sweeping him away in a wave of sound and earth.

Just as quickly, the noise dies.

The man has vanished.

I am left staring at the vacant spot once containing the hunter, wondering if the suspended dust floating on the faint breeze really marked the location of the other man.

Panicked, I study the surrounding brush for any sign of the armed poacher. Had the Rooster discovered me? Am I now a target?

Before I could carry these thoughts any further, a panicked grunting sound is heard to the immediate west. The bear, obviously spooked by the explosion of leaves, is fleeing the area.

Now I am faced with two immediate concerns. One: The bear is racing in my direction. Two: a potentially violent and definitely armed man has vanished in the underbrush before my eyes.

After a quick re-examination of the scene, I bolt upright and race in a southwest direction, towards George Drouillard trail.

This would take me uncomfortably close to the Rooster’s location, but that seems preferable to staying here and having a panicked bear run into me.

I am preparing to leap a fallen log, when a searing pain shoots down my left leg. Tripping awkwardly over the fallen tree, I reach around and discover something foreign and solid protruding from my left buttocks.

Tugging on the mass reveals a red-tufted tranquilizer dart. I only have time to recognize the device before strange barking sounds erupt to the immediate north.

Lifting myself from the ground, I continue the southerly flight.

Leaving the shelter of the trees onto a dirt trail, I recognize this trail, which eventually will take me to the primitive campsite where the car is parked. Hoping to reach the campsite and safety, I turn west. Before me, the road stretches surreal into a fading hollow echo of drugged muscles flexing sporadically in the viscous afternoon air.

As the scratching sound of the rustling leaves turns into this long steady static imprint, I collapse in the dust of the trail.

As I lie in the dirt, dust settling on my unflinching open eyes, I could swear that some animal lopes out of the woods and moves to my side, all of the while scenting me noisily.

Now what do we do? asks a strange voice.

Chapter 2

PRISON

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I have just awakened in some kind of cell. Dirt walls, dirt floor, dirt ceiling. At first glance, the cell has the appearance and texture of an adobe hut. But after further examination, the only conclusion that accounts for the temperature and the feel of the walls, and the distinct lack of sound (absolutely NO sound) is that the cell is underg round.

The cell measures barely eight feet by eight feet, and is only inches above six feet high. A cot lies against one wall. A small desk is in a corner. The room is further furnished with a stool, a bucket, a writing pad, and a pen. A very glaringly bright light bulb stands naked from the wall from some kind of electrical conduit. The only entrance is a solid door set squarely in the remaining corner. The door has a feed slot, maybe two feet off the ground. Interestingly, it also has two Jacob’s slots for peering into my cell from the outside. One is set at approximately five feet high, but strangely, the other is set right below the feed slot.

When I woke from my rather humiliating capture, I was laying on my back on the cot. Still groggy, a search of the room revealed that none of my belongings were present. After trying the door and finding it locked, I began a more thorough search of the cell. A description of the cell’s contents precedes this paragraph, and I am sorry the text is so jumbled and erratic, but my God, I only awoke an hour ago after being shot by a tranquilizer gun.

I spent the last thirty minutes trying to open the slots of the door to no avail. So I plumped down on the stool and am now writing this narrative to organize my thoughts. But, why would someone shoot me with a tranquilizer and hide me underground? Am I a prisoner? Maybe I’m a new zoo exhibit? But a tranquilizer dart?!!?

Chapter 3

IN THE PRISON CELL, HENRY MEETS HOOD

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U nderground, there is no time. Aside from the incessantly blaring light bulb, my grumbling stomach, and my awkward bowel movement in the bucket, I have no idea what day or time of day it is. Well, that is not entirely true. I know that it is time to get that bucket out of here.

Hey! Let’s open up here! Come on! The desk is in my hands, and I beset the door with berserk rage. I hit and I hit and I hit the door, and when the desk in my hands breaks, I grab another piece and begin again. Now the cot is in my hand, and my red vision only focuses on pushing against the door, slamming everything against this barrier.

How dare someone restrain me, confine me! Smash! Smash! I have slammed the entire contents of the room against the door, and am now standing in front of a sealed door amidst a pile of broken furniture. Sick to my stomach, I lie down on the cell floor and contemplate again how I became involved in this predicament.

Who could be involved in this ordeal? I am exhausted and disgusted and anxious and sick. I have been darted, and from what I can determine, it looks like I have been tagged around the neck with some sort of homing device. I pick and claw