Sarkozy backed slowly away from the lynx, his eyes wide as his tail bottled out in fear.  “You . . . no,” he stammered, never taking his eyes off the larger feline.
        Bob smirked.  “Come on, Doctor.  You’ve led us on a merry chase.  Now get over here,” and he started after the fox.
        Sarkozy dodged to the left, bouncing as he leaped onto the bed, twisted and began running for the open doorway as soon as his feet touched the floor.  His tail whisked just out of Bob’s grasp as the lynx stumbled against the bed frame and the fox dashed into the hallway.  He ran for the surgery, saw another fox and his fear lent him wings.  The Hungarian dodged another grab and kept running for the front door.
        As he ran he caught a fleeting glimpse of Doctor Travers lying on the floor of the surgery, his paws tied behind his back.
        “God damn it!” Bob snarled as he regained his footing.  He jerked a knife from the sheath at his hip.  “We’ll have to carry him when we catch him,” he called out to Doug as he ran after Sarkozy.
        “Why?” the fox asked.
        “Because I’m gonna cut his God damned feet off!” Bob yelled as he ran out of the house.

        Sarkozy went running down the hill as fast as his legs could carry him.  If he could evade the two hunting him, he could hide, perhaps as long as daybreak.  Then he would find a policefur and surrender again.
        He hoped.
        His ears perked as he heard the two larger furs running after him, leaving startled and barking dogs in their wake.  A few lights came on in houses along the street, and he hoped that at least one person in this backwards place had a telephone, and would think to call the police.
        A patch of loose gravel on a corner almost made him lose his balance, and he dashed down a small side alley.  As he ran, he reached out and grabbed at garbage cans and boxes, strewing them in his wake.  The debris raised a racket, empty cans and other trash scattering across the alley and forcing his pursuers to jump over or dodge the obstacles.
        His lungs burned and his left side started to hurt as he ducked down another alley and crawled through a gap in a fence.  The fence bounded a small yard with a garden, and there was an outhouse in one corner.  Sarkozy stepped into the small wooden enclosure and pulled the door closed, sitting down on the bench and trying to slow his breathing.

        Doug finally caught up with Bob, the fox having taken a side alley in an attempt to flank Sarkozy in his headlong flight.  The lynx was panting hard, his paws on his knees as he caught his breath.  “Did you see where he went?” he gasped out.
        Doug shook his head and looked around to see lights coming on in the neighborhood.  The dogs hadn’t stopped barking.  “Look, eh,” he said.  “We’re close to catching him, but if we keep crashing around here like elephants we’ll have the whole town down on our ears.”
        “Well, you’re the brain here,” Bob growled, straightening up.  “Suggestions?”
        “Let’s be a bit quieter,” the fox urged.  “It’s dark and things are confused, so we take advantage of that confusion and keep searching.”  He looked around.  “There’s too many damned fenced yards around here,” he remarked.  “He could be anywhere, so we start where we saw him last and be quiet, eh?”  He said this last with his teeth bared and his ears laid back, letting the lynx see his anger.
        Bob nodded.  Ever since that night in Winnipeg he had been careful to avoid truly angering the fox.  “Okay,” he said, and they started moving methodically from yard to yard.
       

        The phone at the boarding house started ringing, and kept on ringing.  Finally the woman who ran the place, a portly weasel with her graying headfur done up in curlers and wearing a housecoat considerably past its prime, stamped out of her room and picked up the receiver.  “Yeah?” she rasped.  “That so?  So why wake me up?  Oh...,” and she started banging on the door near the phone with her fist.  “Jack!  Wake your tail up and get out here!  Phone call!”
        There was an answering growl and the door opened.  The fox was wearing a sleeveless undershirt and his trousers.  “What is it, Miz Daniels?” he asked, running a paw through his headfur.
        In reply, the weasel passed him the phone and went back to her room.  He looked at it and brought it to his ear as he stepped close to the microphone.  “Jack here – oh, hi Carla, how’s tricks?  Oh... really?  Hmm... reports of furs running around in the night, knocking over things . . . sure it ain’t dogs or something?  Oh, I see... well, I’ll get dressed and walk on up there.  Yeah, let ‘em know I’m coming, Carla.  See you later.”  He hung up the phone, scratched under his ribs and yawned.  Sometimes having the night watch was a common pain in the tail.
        He went back to his room, got dressed and put on his gun belt, then left the boarding house at a fast walk.  As he trudged up the hill he wondered how long he’d have to save up in order to get a bicycle.
        And how long it’d take to learn how to ride it.

        When he arrived he found a few of the men in the neighborhood standing out in the street waiting for him.  Two had shotguns in their paws.  “Hi, Jack,” one black-furred feline greeted him.  “Sorry to drag you out here.”
        “I’m on call, Deke.  What’s the problem?”
        “Well, a bunch of us started hearing people running through the street and down the alleys, knocking things over and raising a ruckus,” Deke said.  “And then there’s the Doc’s house.  The lights are on and the door’s partway open.”
        Jack frowned.  “None of you looked?”
        “No.  We decided to call you first.”
        The fox shook his head and started toward Travers’ house, drawing his revolver as he walked.
        He eased the door fully open and stepped in, leading with the drawn pistol.  “Doc!  Doc Travers, you in here?” he called out.
        His ears perked.  Someone moaned quietly, over in the surgery.  He stepped in to find the red squirrel, tied foot and paw in lengths of rubber tubing and gagged with a roll of gauze.
        “Doc!” Jack exclaimed, crouching down beside the doctor and holstering his revolver before pulling the improvised gag from the older fur’s muzzle.  “Are you okay?”
        “I have a bit of a headache,” Travers replied.  “Where are they?” he asked as Jack started to untie him.
        “Who?”
        “Doug and the other fellow.”  Travers quickly described the two and what had happened.  “I think Doug hit me – ow,” he grunted, gingerly running his fingers over the back of his head.  “Doug spoke with a Canadian accent – where’s Sarkozy?” he suddenly asked.
        “Damn!” Jack said, getting to his feet.  “Doc, do me a favor, please – get on the phone and call Pete and Luke.”  He ran out of the room before the doctor could say anything.
        “What’s wrong, Jack?” Deke asked as he ran out of the house.
        The fox waved in a beckoning fashion and several furs gathered around.  “That guy we caught just got sprung from Doc Travers’ house.”  It was a lie, but it was the best way to raise a posse.  “He and two other furs, a lynx and a fox – bit taller and bigger than me – are the ones running around.  They might be making for the ferry.” 
        Muttering met his words and several tightened their paws on their guns.  “I want six people to stay here in case there’s any trouble,” Jack said, “and – Luke!  What the hell are you doing here?” he asked in surprise as the otter trotted up to him.
        “Got a feeling that something was wrong.  It woke me up,” Luke replied, shrugging.
        “God bless your feelings, then.”  Jack explained quickly and the otter grimaced.  “If they caught Sarkozy, they’ll be headed for the ferry.”
        “That’s what I said,” Jack agreed.  “Let’s split up these volunteers and go looking.”
        “Right.  People, gather ‘round!” Luke called out.  “Listen up, please.  As a duly sworn peace officer, I’m calling you out as a posse in accordance with the town charter.  Any second?”
        A paw went up, and Luke asked, “We’re seconded.  All in favor?”
        “Aye!” the furs shouted.  There hadn’t been this much excitement in the town in years.
        “Okay,” Jack said.  “Like I said, six of you lot stay here – the rest, start combing through the neighborhood, and be careful.  Don’t shoot ‘less you have to.”  The crowd started to disperse and the fox walked up to the otter.  “We go to the ferry slip, Luke?”
        “Yeah, Jack.”


        Sarkozy finally managed to get his heart to stop trying to get out of his chest and slumped backward until his spine touched the back wall of the outhouse.  Perhaps he could stay here until dawn.
        Perhaps not.
        His ears perked straight up as he heard a door slam and shuffling footsteps approaching.  He shrank back as the door jerked open.
        The woman in the doorway was an elderly bear with a nearsighted squint, one paw clutching her bathrobe closed and the other holding a kerosene lantern.  The light made him flinch and blink.
        She blinked, squinted at him through her pince-nez glasses, and started screaming.  The sound shocked Sarkozy from his paralysis, and he bolted past her, almost knocking her down as he ran across the yard toward the gap in the fence.  He wriggled through and ran down the alley.
        As he came around the corner he ran smack into the burly lynx who had been pursuing him.  He tried to backpedal but Bob grabbed him and pinned him against a tree.  “Gotcha, you little bastard!  Doug, hey Doug!”
        The fox came around the opposite corner and waved.  “Yeah, Bob?”
        “Little jerk came running down the alley,” Bob said.  “Probably gave that lady next door a heart attack,” he remarked, cuffing the smaller fur across the back of the head.  “You got any rope?”
        Doug climbed a nearby fence and returned after a few minutes, carrying a length of clothesline.  The two of them bound Sarkozy’s paws behind his back and started to half-drag him toward the other end of town, where the ferry was located.


        Luke and Jack ran for the waterfront, taking back alleys and side roads that shortened their route, but as they approached the dock they saw the ferry starting to pull away.  Jack slowed down enough to ask, “We go after ‘em?”
        “Uh-huh.”
        “’Kay.”  The two of them ran faster, reached the end of the dock and leaped. 
        Fortunately the ferry was a large boat and needed time to move.  The gap they had to jump was only a few feet, and Luke landed sprawling on the deck.
        Jack landed on his feet only to reel backward as the larger lynx slashed at him with a drawn knife.  The blade cut through his undershirt and scored a bloody trail through his white chestfur.  As the fox staggered, Luke got to his feet and drew his revolver.  “Police!  Stop right there!”
        The answer to this order was a gunshot that dug a hole in the wood by his feet and he dove for cover by the gunwale as the lynx stepped back, using Sarkozy’s struggling form as cover while he held the bloody knife to the Hungarian fox’s throat. 
        “Police, eh?  How ‘bout that,” the lynx sneered as he pulled his prisoner further back into the shadows while Jack got to his feet.
        “Jack, you okay?” Luke asked.
        “He cut me, but not too bad,” Jack said, pulling his pistol from its holster. 
        Luke nodded and raised his voice.  “Ed!  Ed, are you there?  Turn this tub around!”
        There was no answer, and Luke’s heart sank.  Either the elk wasn’t aboard, or he was left behind or dead.  The lynx had a knife, but the other had a gun – and had the drop on them.
       


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