The Bloodstained Feathers

      THE SCHOOL BUS bounced along a gravel road in the March afternoon sun. Duke leaned forward on the front seat and watched the driver wiggle a toothpick in his mouth. He moved it up and down with quick jerky motions and then swung it from side to side like a dog wagging his tail.

      Duke was fascinated. He reached into his pocket for a toothpick that he had been saving, and tried to imitate Mr. Brooks. Duke did fairly well until the man slammed on the brake to avoid hitting a grouse walking across the road. Then Duke’s toothpick popped out of his mouth and landed on the floor. As he picked it up, he bumped heads with Allen who was trying to rescue a jackknife that had slipped from his lap.

      The boys were the same age—twelve years old. They looked alike—thin as bean poles, straight brown hair, and blue eyes. And they were interested in the same things since they lived on a wildlife refuge in Oregon where birds and animals made their days exciting. Duke Moore’s father was the manager of the refuge, and Allen’s dad worked there, repairing dikes and building roads.

      Right now the boys saw a beautiful sight in the sky. Canada geese flying in V formation were heading for the refuge for a stopover on their journey north. They were the first flock the boys had seen that spring.

      “Wow! The honkers are here, Mr. Brooks,” yelled Duke.

      “It’s about time,” answered the driver. “The weather should get warm now. Good for my old bones.” He shifted gears and the bus jogged along.

      Duke kept looking out the window. Soon another flock of honkers winged by. Duke strained his ears to hear their chatter since wild geese always gabble when they fly. “Shucks! If this old bus didn’t make so much noise, we’d be able to listen to those honkers talking.”

      “Yeah,” agreed Allen. “This bus sounds like an old truck. I often wonder what honkers say to one another when they’re flying. Do you suppose that flock spent the winter in California?”

      Duke shrugged. “Maybe they’ve come from Mexico. We’ll be able to tell if some of them are banded.” After a thoughtful pause he added, “It puzzles me how birds find their way when they migrate. Dad said that scientists are still trying to figure it out. Some think the birds are guided by stars and the sun. Now the western species of the American golden plover is the one that beats me. You know why? Well, those birds make a non-stop flight of over 2000 miles across the Pacific Ocean to Hawaii at migration time. Just think of that!”

      Allen looked amazed. “Has a golden plover ever stopped at the refuge?”

      “Yes. Several years ago there was one during fall migration.” Then Duke added breathlessly, “Boy, it sure would be wonderful to see Black-neck again.”

      Black-neck was a snow goose that had visited the refuge last spring. Because of the unusual dark markings on his neck, the boys had given him a nickname.

      “Maybe Black-neck won’t come this year,” piped up a voice behind them. It was six-year-old Candy. She was Allen’s sister—plump and round like an apple with curls the color of the sun. With her nose pressed against the windowpane, she gazed up at the sky, searching for another flock of wild geese.

      Linda Moore was sitting next to Candy. She was Duke’s sister, nine years old, but she told everyone she was ten because there were only two months left before her next birthday. Her sandy-colored hair was as straight as a reed. It reached her shoulders and bounced up and down whenever she ran.

      “I’m sure we’ll see Black-neck before long,” she said to Candy. “I’ll tell you why. I made a wish last night when I saw the first star, and my wishes nearly always come true.”

      “They do!” Candy looked at her wide-eyed.

      “Yes. I said, ‘Star light, star bright. You’re the first little star I’ve seen tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, receive the wish I wish tonight.’ ”

      Candy clapped her hands with delight. “Say it again so I can learn it and make a wish tonight. Come on, Linda. Please, teach it to me.”

      The boys paid no attention to the girls’ chatter. They were too busy watching more birds fly toward the refuge. Ducks trailed along the skyway in a straight line. They were followed by a flock of sand-pipers that scattered and looked like falling leaves. Then more Canada geese appeared, and Duke and Allen became excited all over again. To them there were no birds like the honkers.

      Finally the bus stopped in front of a ranch house with an old windmill creaking in the yard. Cattle were grazing on bunch grass alongside the road, and a dog came running to meet a boy and girl getting off the bus. Duke and Allen called goodbye. The yellow bus moved on past some horses switching their tails behind a fence. After that marshes and a shallow lake came into view.

      Duke knew they were approaching the refuge. A few moments later he saw the big sign at the entrance. NATIONAL WILDLIFE REFUGE was printed on it in large letters and underneath was the picture of a flying goose.

      It was not long before Duke’s sharp eyes saw something else—something that made him give a loud screech. Allen almost fell off the seat. Candy jumped. And Linda leaned forward to find out what was the matter with her brother. Even Mr. Brooks was alarmed.

      “What goes on here?” he asked in a loud voice.

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Brooks,” apologized Duke. “It’s the trumpeter swans. Two of them are gone.”

      Every afternoon on his way home from school Duke looked at four beautiful wild swans on the pond near the entrance of the refuge. Last fall they had been brought from a sanctuary in Montana to the Oregon wildlife refuge, and since there were few trumpeter swans in America, Duke had a special interest in the two pairs.

      “Take it easy, Duke,” said Mr. Brooks. “You’re just imagining things.” He brought the bus to a slow crawl and glanced over at the pond.

      “See. They’re not there,” said Duke. He was so upset that he was about to cry, but he took a deep breath instead. To shed tears was terrible, especially since he would be thirteen in six months. Just the same Duke could not control his feelings. His face was puckered with anxiety.

      Allen tried to calm him. “Now stop worrying, Duke. Those trumpeters have probably gone into the rushes where you can’t see them from here.”

      “I dont think so,” Duke replied. “The four of them have stayed pretty much together since they came here.”

      “They might have flown away for a while,” said Candy, wanting to be helpful.

      Duke shook his head. “They can’t fly because they’re pinioned. Dad clipped the trumpeters’ wings so that they would stay put. He wants to get a breeding flock on the refuge. Then, when the little trumpeters grow up and are five years old, they will have families of their own.”

      Candy was impressed. “Little baby swans! That will be wonderful!” A second later after some thought, she said, “But the big trumpeters can walk, Duke. I’ve seen them. So maybe . . .”

      “The missing ones went to the grain field near the pond,” finished Linda. “Sure. That’s where they are.” She gave her