Free The True Blue Scouts of Sugar Man Swamp by Kathi Appelt Page B

from one to twelve in a circle, and just like always . . . oooooowwwweeeeeee  . . . blip  . . . blip  . . . weeeeooo  . . . ssshhhshshshshshsh  . . . followed by the Voice of Intelligence, loud and clear.
    â€œHowdy there, east Texas. Hope everyone is in a nice, dry spot while these storms pass through.”
    Bingo cocked his ears. So did J’miah. Then blip  . . . blip  . . . blip  . . . blip. The Voice came back on, “Fishing should be good down on the bayou. . . .” That made Bingo happy. He loved fish. He’d go fishing first thing.
    â€œFishing,” said J’miah.
    The radio kept going . . . ooooowwwweeeee  . . . weeeeeoooo  . . . and then they heard words like . . . “terrible” . . . “horrible” . . . “no good”. . . “very bad” . . . wwweeeeoooo . . .
    Bingo’s tuft stood straight up.
    â€œWhat?” asked Bingo.
    â€œWho?” asked J’miah.
    They both waited.
    Sure enough the worst words of all, “. . . HOGS! . . . they’re heading directly toward the Sugar Man Swamp. . . .”
    Bingo and J’miah looked at each other. “The Farrow Gang!” they said together.
    Then . . . blip  . . . blip . . . oooweeeee  . . . The purple lightsdimmed and the message faded, but right before it ended, there was a crackle  . . . pop  . . . pop  . . . “Arrroooo!”
    Raccoon fur went poof, poof !
    Bingo and J’miah looked like stripy puffer fishes. They had never heard the Voice howl before. But the howl was not nearly so unsettling as the news that the notorious Farrow Gang was heading their way.
    Buzzie and Clydine’s reputation had preceded them. Our Scouts, with their open eyes, sniffing noses, and ears to the ground, had seen first-paw the devastation wrought by the Farrows. Over the past several months, lots of critters had sought refuge in the Sugar Man Swamp to avoid being mowed down by the hogs. Bingo had seen the whitetail deer hobble in, their legs battered and bruised. He had witnessed a cattle egret with its wing torn and tattered. He remembered the small flock of cottontail rabbits, their paws sore from running too many miles in their efforts to get away from the gang.
    They were the lucky ones, the ones who made it to the welcoming domain of the swamp. Until now it was believed that the swamp meant safety, but . . . rumble-rumble-rumble-rumble  . . . Bingo swallowed hard. If the Voice of Intelligence told the truth (and it always had), the Sugar Man Swamp, and all the critters who dwelt there, would soon be under siege.
    All at once, our Scouts knew what they had to do. They didn’t particularly want to do it. They’d never done it before. But it had to be done.
    Together, Bingo said to J’miah and J’miah said to Bingo, “We have to wake up the Sugar Man.”

39
    I N A SMALL BUILDING THAT sat directly underneath Bingo’s blinking red star, Coyoteman Jim watched the rain pouring outside his studio window. Of course, like most radio stations, it was soundproof, but he could still see the flashes of lightning in the distance. He looked at the clock on his desk. Midnight. He pushed away from the microphone, took the headphones off, stood up, and stretched.
    He had just finished the weather report and the unsettling news about hogs, and had lined up a long set of his favorite songs. He only halfway listened to them as they spun from one to another in the automatic player.
    He was looking for some inspiration. The previous morning, when he had stopped in for his fried sugar pie and mug of milk, Chap Brayburn had asked him to make a commercial for Paradise Pies. But right now he was stumped. There was a blank pad of paper and a