Skrodd patted the small fox’s back. “Good! When I gets this gang sorted out, we’ll give ye a proper vermin name. Big Redd don’t mean nothin’. How does Badredd sound to ye, eh?”
The young fox was squirming inside with joy. However, he kept his voice tough, in keeping with his new position. “Sounds great t’me, mate. Badredd—I like that! ’Tis a real killer’s name. Badredd!”
After a fruitless night rambling through woodland thickets, the gang watched a rose-tinged dawn break over the treetops. They were soaked through by heavy dew, which was dripping everywhere from boughs and leaves.
Dargle’s temper was on a short fuse. Emerging into a clearing on the bank of a stream, he struck out at Little Redd with his spear haft.
“Keep outta my way, runt! Every time ye come near me, I get soaked wid the water ye knock off the bushes.”
Redd looked appealingly at Skrodd. The big fox cast a glance of mock pity at Dargle and snarled scornfully. “Scared of a few drips o’ dew, are ye? Look at us, we’re all wet through, an’ we ain’t moanin’.”
Dargle faced up to Skrodd right away. “Hah! Wet through an’ weary, an’ wot for, eh? We never found the otter an’ the squirrel. No, we just tramped around all night followin’ you, an’ now we’re good an’ lost. Some leader you are, Skrodd!”
The big fox bristled. “Don’t talk silly, we ain’t lost!”
It was Dargle’s turn to sound scornful. “Oh, ain’t we now? See that rowan tree, I marked it wid me spearblade not long after we started marchin’. Look!”
Flinky inspected the fresh scar on the rowan bark. “Aye, ’tis a new spearmark sure enuff. Dargle’s right!”
Leaning on his spearbutt, the hefty rat grinned teasingly. “We’ve been goin’ round in circles, mates, an’ now our great leader’s got us lost. Well, Skrodd?”
The fox held his blade at the ready and challenged Dargle. “If’n yore so clever, then you find the way. ’Tis easy to stand there talkin’ smart all day, Dargle. Go on, show us how ye are, an’ find the right way!”
The rat squatted down on his haunches, chuckling. “Sort out yore own mess, I’m stoppin’ here an’ restin’.”
Halfchop ventured a suggestion. “Burrad would’ve sent Plumnose to find the way, ’cos he’s a good tracker.”
Relief flooded through Skrodd as he realised that Halfchop had provided the solution to a sticky problem. Taking advantage, he quickly re-established his position as leader of the gang.
“Right, Plumnose, get on yore way! Ferget the two beasts we were trackin’, they’ll keep for another day. Find us the way to this Redwall Abbey place an’ report back here.”
Always one to seize an opportunity, Flinky nodded his head admiringly. “Ah, that’s a grand ould move, Chief. I see ye noticed the fine campsite we’re at. We can lay up here fer a day or two an’ rest, once we’re sure of the way. Lookit, we got a stream wid fish an’ freshwater an’ lots o’ trees full of fat birds sittin’ on nests packed wid eggs. The place is filled wid roots an’ fruit an’ firewood!”
Skrodd looked sage. “That’s wot I was thinkin’, a day or two here’ll freshen us up for the rest o’ the journey. We’ll make camp an’ rest awhile, mates.”
Only Plumnose was not happy with the new plans. His huge nose wobbled from side to side as he complained. “Duh, id’s nod right. I’b tired, too, j’know!”
Rogg and Floggo, the weasel brothers, notched arrows to their bows and fired a pair of shafts near Plumnose’s paws.
“Yore the tracker, Plum, now git goin’!”
“Aye, ye could track a butterfly underwater wid a hooter like that. Hohoho!”
Throwing twigs and grass clumps at the unfortunate creature, the gang drove Plumnose from the camp. Glad they had not been selected to go tracking, they shouted after him.
“Don’t trip over yer nose, Plum!”
“Aye, an’ don’t sniff any big boulders up. Heeheehee!”
The tension was broken for the moment. Gathering wood and foraging for victuals, the gang busied themselves.
Flinky dug a firepit on the streambank, singing a cheery ditty.
“Ah ’tis luvverly bein’ a vermin,
’cos ye lead a simple life,
leave the snufflin’ babes behind,
run off from the naggin’ wife.
There’s nought to do but ramble,
an’ plunder on the way,
just look bold, rob all ye can hold,
an’ bid ’em all good day.
A vermin, a vermin, that’s wot I’ll always be,
I’m base an’ vile, ’cos that’s me style,
an’ I’ll bet ye envy me!”
By late morn they had a good fire burning. Flinky and his mate, Crinktail, were in their element. They boiled woodpigeon eggs, grilled fish, and made a passable vegetable stew from various roots and wild produce which grew plentifully roundabout. Neither Dargle nor Skrodd made any move to help. Sitting close to the fire, they helped themselves, glaring at each other across the flames.
Skrodd collared Little Redd and gave him whispered orders. “Scout round an’ find me somewheres safe to rest. Make sure ’tis soft an’ comfortable. Pick a place far away from that rat, an’ someplace close for yourself, so ye can guard me. Go on!”
Puffed up with his own importance, Redd went to seek a suitable resting spot. He chose the base of a spreading oak, not too close to the stream. It was a basin-shaped depression between two thick roots.
When the gang finished eating, they settled down for a much-needed sleep. Most of them stayed by the fire, but Dargle chose a fernbed on the opposite side of the camp from Skrodd. From there the rat could see his enemy and lay plans.
Little Redd proudly showed Skrodd the spot at the base of the oak trunk. “That’s it, mate, nice an’ snug, see!”
The small fox lay down, gesturing. “There’s plenty o’ room for both of us. I can guard ye good from here, mate.”
Skrodd shook his head disapprovingly. “Nah, ye go an’ lay by the fire with the others. That’ll put ye halfway twixt me’n Dargle. But don’t go sleepin’, keep yore eyes peeled on those ferns where he’s layin’ low. Soon as Dargle makes a move, come runnin’ an’ let me know.”
Little Redd rose reluctantly. “I kin watch him just as well if’n I stop ’ere with you, mate.”
Skrodd hauled him roughly upward, thrusting him toward the fire. “Ye’d do better to heed my orders. Now get goin’. I’m chief round ’ere, see!”
Stinging from the rebuke, Redd slouched over to the fire. Sullenly, he slunk down amid the snoring vermin.
With not a breeze to rustle the trees, warm noon sunlight shone down on the camp. Bees hummed gently, and butterflies fluttered silently around blossoming bushes. Near the ashy embers of the cooking fire, Little Redd drifted into a slumber. Only one of the gang was still awake—Dargle. Now was the time to put his plan into action. Draping his cloak over the ferns so it would look like he was still there, the rat inched his way backward out of the foliage. Flat on his stomach, he took a careful route, circling the campsite. When the rear of the spreading oak came in sight, Dargle rose into a half crouch. Gripping his spear firmly, he crept up on his sleeping enemy.
Skrodd woke momentarily, but only to die. A muffled grunt of agony escaped him as Dargle’s spear thrust into his body.
Dargle leaned down on the spearhilt, grinning triumphantly. “Now who’s the chief, eh?”
It was the rat’s only mistake—it turned out to be his last. Skrodd had lain down to sleep with the cutlass held tight in his paw. Now, with one spasmodic jerk, he whipped the broad blade across his assassin’s neck, almost severing Dargle’s head. The ambitious rat fell slain on top of his victim’s dead body.
Little Redd was wakened by Flinky kicking him in the back. The small fox sat up rubbing his eyes and muttering at the still-sleeping stoat. “Keep yore paws to yoreself, ye great lump!”