WE RODE ON, LEFT ARIZONA Territory, and entered New Mexico, heading north by northeast.
At night the red and orange flames of our campfire flickered cheerily. We would toast cheese on long sticks, and then Basil would play his flute. Many furred and feathered creatures listened to the melodies that soared high and clear in the wilderness.
An owl swooped down once, not to harm us, but to hear the music. She recognized the detective at once—his renown is worldwide.
She especially liked a piece he’d written himself, based on the poem, The Owl and the Pussycat, and said she’d pass the word to birds to leave us alone. We were thankful—far too many flyers find mice tasty.
After she left, Basil reached for his gun.
“On guard, Dawson! I hear a prowler.”
“Who goes there?” he called. “Show yourself!”
Out of the darkness strode a tall, handsome Indian mouse, holding his paws high.
“Don’t shoot! I come in peace. Whose sharp ears detected my presence out there?”
He spied Basil. “So the sharp ears belong to Basil of Baker Street! I’m Tom Talltrees.”
Longfellow, who’d been dozing, looked up.
“Hello there, Tom. Sorry I missed the wedding—had a trip scheduled. Congratulations! How’s the blushing bride, winsome Wenonah?”
“Fine, except for a sprained ankle. Heard you were going to Moriarty, near Palma, where we live. Any chance of a ride?”
“Of course. And the ankle will have Dr. Dawson’s personal care. Where’s your wife?”
Wenonah was nearby. I bound up the ankle, and told her she’d be riding with us.
Her lovely face brightened. “Good! Now we won’t miss school. Tom and I are teachers.”
Riding along, Tom told us about the mouse town of Moriarty, built in the deserted courtyard of a burnt-out building, a mile beyond the people’s town of Moriarty. No humans ever bothered to visit the area, for a fire had made charred skeletons of all the buildings there.
“It’s a bad town, Basil, owned lock, stock, and barrel by an evil mouse called J.J.”
“My mission is to capture J.J.,” said Basil.
“A difficult task. He owns more land than anyone else, has the biggest bank account. He’s tough, hard as nails. When mice can’t pay money they owe on their homes, and beg for more time, he sends his gangsters to throw the family off the land, furniture and all. Then he takes over. I hear that he plans to set up a superstate, and rule it as king, with life-and-death powers over all mice.”
“Do many strangers visit him?” inquired Basil.
Tom nodded. “A renegade pony named Satan trots them off to J.J.’s ranch. They return with bulky packages. Nobody knows what’s in the packages. Your guess is as good as mine.”
The sleuth smiled. “No need to guess—I know. J.J. heads a gigantic smuggling ring, operating out of Mexico. Tell me more, Tom.”
Longfellow interrupted. “Lawless ponies do team up with mouse criminals, but there are few like Satan. My grandson Verdi worked for a seemingly honest mouse. When he learned his boss was a bank robber, Verdi told Mouse Sheriff Shaw about the next job that was planned. Shaw set up a trap. The holdup failed, the gang was jailed, and Verdi’s more careful now.”
“I’d like to meet Verdi,” said Tom. “I hear he sings arias from every opera written by his namesake, the man Giuseppe Verdi. But about J.J.—I’ve never seen him. My friend Cactus Charlie has, says he’s mean-looking, with piggish eyes and a very long tail he usually keeps across his lap. Charlie says it’s easy to see J.J.’s smaller than average, even though he’s always sitting down.”
“Always sitting down? Why?” I asked.
“Heavens, Tom,” cried Wenonah, “you forgot to tell them he’s in a wheelchair. His bodyguards told Charlie that because of a bad fall, J.J. will never walk again.”
“Then once we get past the guards,” said the detective, “capturing him should be easy.”
“Dead wrong, Basil. His ranch is like an armed fort. Guards with rifles patrol it day and night, inside and out. Any mouse approaching must know the password, or he’s booted out, at gunpoint. High walls surround the ranch house patio, with barbed wire strung all along the tops of the walls.”
“Nobody could possibly climb those walls,” added Wenonah. “J.J. is devilishly clever! He had glue poured along the top, and sprinkled it thickly with broken glass.”
Tom’s eyes bored into Basil’s. “I admire and respect you as a brilliant detective, but I must speak frankly. Your chances of capturing J.J. are practically zero. The obstacles are too many and too great. In my opinion, Basil, you’re on an impossible mission!”