Free The Prince Who Fell From the Sky by John Claude Bemis

“What?”
    The rat was sniffing at a scattering of black pellets hidden among the weeds. “They’re droppings. From my mischief!”
    “Are you sure?”
    “I know!” the rat said, his black eyes bulging wide. “I know my own mischief. They came through here. Not so long ago. Come on.”
    Dumpster ran ahead down the highway, dashing from bush to relic and keeping close to cover as he went. Casseomae and the cub followed him toward a collapsed bridge over a creek, where Dumpster stopped with a shrill curse. There was fur everywhere and black spots speckling the grass.
    Casseomae sniffed. “Blood.”
    “They were attacked here,” Dumpster said, his teeth chattering with fright. “I smell weasel all over this place.”
    Casseomae lifted her nose. “It’s not here anymore.”
    The rat followed a faint scent trail into the underbrush off the highway. He had just disappeared in a thorny cane of blackberries when he gave a cry. Casseomae trudged around the bramble with the child at her side until they were on the bank of the creek.Dumpster backed out of the blackberry cane dragging a rat with his teeth.
    “Is he alive?” She snorted. But the rat was stiff and crusted in blood.
    Dumpster let go of the rat’s scruff and bumped noses with him once. “Tarmac was our best scout. One of Stormdrain’s sons. Probably fought off the weasel while the rest of the mischief escaped. Oh, poor Tarmac. You’re in Lord Murk’s den now, brave buck.”
    The child knelt over the dead rat and touched a finger to his tail.
    “At least the others got away,” Casseomae said.
    Dumpster sniffed. “Yeah.”
    “And we’re on the right path, so—” she began before hearing panting and running paws coming from the highway. She rose quickly on her hind legs as Dumpster disappeared into the brambles and the child got behind her. “It’s him again,” Casseomae snorted.
    The dog yipped as he went into the cane and then rustled his way around.
    Dumpster poked his head out, clicking his teeth angrily. “What’s it going to take to get rid of that Faithful piece of mite-infested cur?”
    As the dog appeared, Casseomae growled, “I thought I told you—”
    “A patrol of coyotes,” the dog barked rapidly. “Just over the hill.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    “A re they coming up the highway?” Dumpster asked, springing out from the brambles.
    The dog cocked his head. “Highway?”
    “The trail! The spittin’ trail back there.”
    “No,” the dog said.
    The child seemed oblivious to their urgency and squatted to pet the dog’s head, clearly happy to see him again. The dog licked the child’s hand, giving Casseomae a cautious look. He then pointed his nose with a front leg cocked. “They’re out in the trees. Over that way.”
    “Did they smell you?” Casseomae asked.
    “I don’t think so. I’m not sure. They were distant still and I had the high ground.”
    “Let’s move,” Dumpster said, his shock over findinghis dead mischief mate giving way to action. “We’ve got to get away from the highway. Follow the creek bed. It’s an old mischief trick.
‘Stay in the puddles and the voras it muddles,’
as my old da always said. They’ll have a harder time picking up a scent in water.”
    Casseomae snorted. She wasn’t feeling as concerned as the rat and dog seemed. These were only coyotes, after all, not the Ogeema’s wolves or his cougar.
    The dog began splashing downstream and the child followed him. Casseomae lumbered after them in the creek with the rat leaping behind her from rock to rock. When they got farther from the highway, Casseomae rose on her hind legs.
    “Anything?” Dumpster panted.
    “Hard to say,” she replied.
    The creek twisted and turned until at last it ran through a section thick with laurel. A covey of quail took flight from the trees ahead and flew toward them.
    The dog stopped in the creek. “The coyotes scared up those birds,” he whispered.
    “They’re up ahead,” Dumpster said. “I don’t