Previous: Chapter Eight: Wallab-Eve
The full Moon shone down over Sustainaville, on South Padre Island. Merl hitched Fusion to the watering trough outside the Clarke Bar, and pushed open the twin clear glass saloon doors. Kneale, the surfer, was sitting in Merl’s regular chair. Kneale smiled in greeting and started to rise. Merl raised a hand. Keep your seat.
The last thing Merl remembered going on at the ranch was Cap’s tired glance.
Cap had been on the phone with a hurricane expert in Baton Rouge. Frances and Jo argued over a scan of an old weather map that looked like it had been transmitted by a 20th century fax machine.
Merl heard the phrase “raft migration” go by for the fifth time.
“Raft migration. What is that?”
MaryLiz blushed. We should have explained it to the team. “Frances?”
The veteranarian faced the noble ranch hand.
“Animals can cross great stretches of ocean, that they could never swim, blown by the wind. All they need is a raft to float on. For plants, the seed might be a good raft.
Merl said, “Rafts. Like Huck and Jim?” Frances nodded. “So Pooper and kin had rafts. They made them? Out of what?”
“They didn’t have to make them. Coastal driftwood, accumulated over decades of storm events, then dislodged in a fury by a strong hurricane.”
MaryLiz saw comprehension light Merl’s eyes, which the caught her glance with one silent question. Can I get out of here for a while? MaryLiz nodded back. Yes. Get out of here while you still can.
Merl smiled slightly. Thanks.
Bender tossed her head towards the door of the Mess. Now, off with you.
That had been only an hour ago. Here and now in the Clarke Bar, Merl raised an invisible toast to Bender. Thank you, Cap.
Someone was fiddling with the karaoke machine. Merl knew they’d fail, because Purvis, the bartender, kept the remote control for the machine locked safely in the bar’s cash drawer.
A Texas Wildlife Service ranger, one Merl remembered from the day’s hunt, settled at the bar. The wildlife agent set a full glass on the bar top, and began flipping through photographs from the day’s efforts.
A tourist approached Purvis at the bar to ask about the karaoke machine, and glanced at the wildlife agent’s photos.
“What’re those?!”
The agent’s khaki-clad shoulders shrugged. “Wallabies, if you can believe it. On the loose from somewhere or ‘nother. These are from today. Here, check ‘em out. You won’t believe it….”
A chorus of “Awws!” and “How Cute’s” radiated from the new ground zero of wallaby adorability.
Merl walked out of the Clarke to a quiet spot at the back, and dialed Cap. As Merl waited for Bender to answer, a crowd gathered around the young wildlife worker’s gallery of cute but impossible photos.
MaryLiz answered the phone.
“Cap’n, Merl. I’m at the Clarke. You told us to keep things quiet, but apparently Texas Wildlife didn’t get the memo. The cat’s out of the pouch. It wasn’t me. Thought you’d wanna know.”
The always-impassive ranchhand sounded rattled. MaryLiz took a breath. First task: talk Merl down. And then have Frances call the Texas Wildlife Service with carte blanche to speak plainly.
“Merl, thanks for calling. This was bound to happen, with so many people involved. Don’t worry about it. If you do answer questions, whatever you say might be misreported.” Merl heard Cap give a space for that to sink in. Then Bender continued:
“But. Merl. The secret is out. We’ve got cooperation from every agency this side of the Rio Grande. You’re doing a great job. You’re part of the story. Enjoy your night off.”
Merl digested what she’d said. Over the phone, MaryLiz could hear loud music start to play, as if a PA system had been suddenly switched on. An impossibly loud yell of “TESTING” over the PA momentarily blotted out all other sound. Merl sighed. The karaoke machine was now in working order,
Purvis was pocketing a good sized tip, and the Texas Wildlife Service’ most game representative prepared to take the stage.
“Okay, Cap. I’ll keep an eye on things. You know where I am.”
“I sure do. Have a good one, Merl.”