Sammy Keyes and the Wild Things by Wendelin Van Draanen Page B

can’t believe you guys let an eight-inch scorpion get away!”
    I looked at him. “What were you going to do,
eat
it?”
    Billy grinned at Casey. “You told her about my battle with the beast?” He took the rattler from Casey. “It was intense!” He started dancing around with the snake like they were boxers in the ring. “He jabbed, I dodged. He jabbed, I dodged. He jabbed, I dodged—”
    â€œDid you shoot it?” Cricket asked. “We heard two shots last night. Was that you killing the snake?”
    Billy looked shocked. And kinda hurt. “No, I didn’t
shoot
him! I went at him
man-o a snake-o
! Serpent against human! Ancient biblical enemies colliding again in the New World!” He quit dancing around and shrugged. “I used a rock.”
    â€œA
big
rock,” Casey added.
    â€œI was gonna roast him at Miner’s Camp, but those pig poachers chased us off.”
    â€œPig poachers?” I asked, picturing a big vat of water with a pig in it. You know, like you’d poach an egg. “Those guys dressed like trees are
pig
poachers? How do you poach a pig?”
    â€œYou kill ’em!” Billy said. “When you’re not supposed to!”
    â€œThey’re boar hunters,” Casey said, dropping his voice. “It’s illegal down here, but that doesn’t stop people.”
    My mind scrambled around, adjusting to the fact that there were no vats of water involved in this sort of poaching. “But how do you know they’re boar hunters?”
    He snickered. “Just look at them.”
    Billy jumped in, shifting his eyes side to side and making his voice all breathy as he said, “They track ’em. They use their keen wits to uncover signs of piggy activity. They look for hoofprints. And broken twigs. And . . . and piggy poop.
Especially
piggy poop. And when they’ve tracked one down, they stalk it until it’s in a place where they can face off with it. Then they throw little rocks at it until it’s all angry and pawing at the earth and snorting through its big, ugly, hairy snout. That’s when they get their bows ready. They get their bows ready, and when the boar charges,
pa-choom, pa-ching
! They let those arrows fly!”
    Casey grinned at Billy. “And if they miss . . .”
    Billy laughed. “They
run
.”
    â€œWait,” I said. “They don’t use guns?”
    They both shook their heads, and Casey added, “Guns are not sporty enough for boar hunters. They’re into the hunt. It’s a
game
to them—”
    â€œLike paintball!” Billy said. “With wild pigs!”
    â€œOnly they use arrows and they
kill
them?” I asked.
    Casey smirked at Billy. “Yeah. Minor differences.” He turned back to me. “They don’t use twangy kid arrows, either. They use compound bows.”
    Billy nodded. “Which is like using a high-powered rifle instead of a BB gun.”
    â€œBut they don’t use guns. At all? Ever?”
    Casey shrugged. “Hard to say. And I’m not into hunting, but if one of those boars was charging at me, I might shoot it. They’re big and hairy and have tusks. They can kill you.”
    â€œLike this sucker!” Billy said, shaking the head of his snake.
    â€œSo wait,” I said. “Does this mean you’re a snake poacher?”
    â€œNo way!” he said. “This beast attacked
me
.”
    Casey eyed me. “Which is how boar hunters get around the no-hunting laws. They say they shot in self-defense.”
    â€œEven though they provoked them?”
    Casey nodded. “Exactly.”
    Cricket checked her watch. “Which way are you guys going? Because we really need to get moving.”
    Casey looked at Billy.
    Billy shrugged and gave a little grin.
    Casey gave a little grin back, then looked at us and said, “Wherever you’re going, that’s where we’re