The Legend of Thunderfoot

To Kaden Keith and Jordan Paige Wallace and William James Moore

It was a slow process. For each step he took, his friend took ten. It seemed as if they'd been walking all night, but at his age there was no longer the need to get anywhere in a hurry.

“How much farther?” he asked.

“We're almost there.”

“That's what you said the last time.”

“If you don't like my answer—quit asking.”

“It's dark. Roadrunners aren't supposed to be out walking around in the dark. We're supposed to be hiding or sitting in a tree.”

“Stop griping. The moon's almost full. You can see just fine. Besides, when have you ever done
anything
a roadrunner's
supposed
to do?”

At the top of a short hill, the tortoise stopped. There were two mesquite trees, one with a wide
trunk, the other with a fallen limb.

“This is it,” he whispered. “We can hear from behind this one, and they won't see us.”

“Why wouldn't you just tell me? Why did we have to come clear over here and . . .”

The tortoise shushed him. “You have to hear this for yourself. I've lost track of the times I've heard it. With each telling, the story gets bigger and more outlandish. This was the first opportunity I was close enough to find you and get you back in time. If I had tried to tell you, you wouldn't have believed me.”

“When have I ever doubted you?”

The tortoise's neck arched so he could look back over his shell. His expression was enough to hush the roadrunner. Side by side, they stood behind the wide trunk of the mesquite. “Here come the young roadrunners,” the tortoise whispered. “Set your tail feathers down and hush.”

A tiny orange sliver peeked above the mountains in the east. Mother roadrunner at his side, the father hopped onto a tall rock and looked down at his three children.

• • •

“Today is the time of The Naming! When the bottom of the sun touches the mountains, I will tell you the legend,” the father announced to the children who
stood in front of him. “After you have heard the legend, you will go—one at a time—to find food. Your mother and I will watch. We will see your speed, agility, cunning, alertness, and determination. When you return here, your name will be given, and you will begin a life of your own.”

• • •

“That's not the way it works,” the old roadrunner whispered, peeking around the trunk of the tree. “When the bottom of the sun touches the mountains,
that
is the time of The Naming. They're doing it all wrong. There's no legend.”

The old tortoise glanced up at him. “There is now, at least outside your precious Paradise Valley. That's what I wanted you to hear. Hush.”

They waited. Watched the sun as it slowly inched its way toward the sky. The instant the bottom of the sun rested on the mountain peaks, the father spoke.

• • •

“The story I tell is more than a story. It is legend! It was passed to me from my father. You will pass it to your children, from now until the end of time. It is the legend of the greatest roadrunner who ever lived. Great not only because of his great size, but great because of his great deeds.

“The great one was born fully grown. His parents did not fledge him. He fledged himself on the very day he hatched. He hunted by high sun—so hungry and so good at finding food he brought dragonflies, tarantulas, even rabbits back to his family.

“By the time he was three sunrises, he was as big as his mother and father put together. His wings were so powerful he could fly high in the sky. He could soar as the eagle. He had legs so strong he could chase down a coyote.

“Predators feared him. They even feared the place where he and his mate lived. We call it Paradise Valley. The coyotes and bobcats call it the Valley of Doom. Whenever predators venture there, mystic stones fall from the clear blue sky. They crash so close that it strikes terror in the predators' hearts. Sometimes rocks strike them. Only the foolish or the nonbelievers dare to go there. But if they do and the mystic stones do not drive them away, the great one and his mate will.

“Two coyotes ventured into his valley. He ran them down. He struck them with his huge feet, driving their heads into the sand. His claws were so strong he once picked up a bobcat, flew her into the sky, and dropped her. She fell from such a height she was buried in the sand—never to be seen again.

“No roadrunner has ever been hit by one of these mystical stones. No roadrunner has ever been harmed in this place called Paradise Valley. For roadrunners, there is no danger there. The food is plentiful.

“In Paradise Valley the great one grew and grew. His huge, sharp claws became strong as steel. Each time they strike the ground, sparks fly. We call this
lightning.
The sound of his huge feet pounding the desert floor is so loud it rumbles through the canyons and shakes the very earth itself. We call this
thunder.”

• • •

The old roadrunner blinked, shook his head, and looked down at the tortoise beside him. “Are you listening to this? Can you believe what that father is telling his kids? They're talking about me, aren't they?”

The old tortoise glanced up. His friend's eyes were so wide they looked as if they might pop clear out of his head.

“Yes. I always thought you were the stuff of legend, kid. Guess I was right.”

“But this is ridiculous. I was just like any other roadrunner. And nobody ever got hit with a rock . . . and—”

“How about the bobcat?” the tortoise interrupted.

“Tess?”

“Yeah,” the tortoise said with a nod. “What about her?”

“She was the most bullheaded cat I ever saw. Took us three seasons before she caught on that she wasn't wanted. Besides I didn't drop that rock. That was my wife. And it was an accident. Her aim has improved a lot since then, and . . .” He stopped a moment and sighed. “And as far as my feet . . . well . . . that didn't happen until . . . well, it was the day before The Naming. It was all because of that dumb old grasshopper. Remember?”

The young bird had never been so excited. Never so nervous.

Tomorrow was The Naming.

The day his parents would give him his name. The Naming was the time all roadrunners left the safety of their parents' nests and struck out on their own. The time they no longer had to depend on anyone for food or protection. The time they would explore their range, meet other roadrunners, and establish their own territory. The time they would prove their courage, alertness, and skill as hunters—not just to themselves, but to the whole world. It was a proud time. A time he had longed for.

He felt right happy with himself. This finding food stuff was getting easier every day. Standing perfectly still, he listened, watching with sharp eyes from beneath the shade of a creosote bush.

Let's see
, he thought.
Five grasshoppers, a lizard, two scorpions
, and one
skink tail
. Well, he thought with a shrug,
I should have had the whole skink. Daddy told me to grab them by the neck or back. If you grab them by the tail, it breaks off. The skink gets away, and you're left with nothing but a beakful of tail.

But if Daddy had told him the truth, skinks' tails would grow back after a few months.
Next time I'll remember and get the whole thing.

He fluffed his feathers, continued to watch and listen. A movement on the far side of some rocks caught his attention. There was a stand of weeds and short prairie grass. He could see just the very tops of the taller weeds and a saltbush above the rock. He froze. Completely motionless, he didn't even breathe.

A grasshopper.

Another leaped from the grass onto a broad leaf. Then another crawled up a wide stalk.

He flipped his long tail feathers.
A few grasshoppers ought to just about fill me up. Then I can go home and tell Mama, Daddy, and my sister how much I caught to eat. Maybe tomorrow, they will give me a strong name. A fast name, fitting a roadrunner. Maybe Speedy. Maybe Muscles or Dash or . . .

He felt a tingling when the feathers of his head crest sprang up.
Hunter! Yeah, Hunter would be a great name. Hunter. The world's greatest hunter.

He started to make his sprint toward the grasshopper supper, then suddenly, remembering, he froze.

Roadrunners had rules. Like “always look before you leap!” Since the first day he'd left the nest on his wobbly legs, that's what Mama and Daddy told him and his sister. “Always look before you leap.”

Make sure there are no coyotes, bobcats, or rattlesnakes around. If you look over an area before you go there, it's hard for a predator to sneak up on you. Of course, there
was
a second rule for roadrunners. “If a bobcat or coyote does sneak up on you, forget the rules! RUN!”

Flying was hard. It was much easier to walk. And running was . . . well . . . for a roadrunner, why walk if you can run? But “always look before you leap” was a little tough for him to remember. Sometimes when he was hungry, or when he was thinking about how to impress his mom and dad so he would get a good name, he forgot.

Quiet and easy, he put his foot back on the ground. His eyes stood out on each side of his
head, so he could look not only in front of him, but to the sides and behind. He watched for the slightest movement.

Coyotes were usually easy to spot. They moved, trotting along or walking to search for mice, mesquite seeds, or cactus pods. Bobcats were sneaky. They usually lay in wait behind a rock or beneath a bush. But even at that, if he took the time to look, he would notice their whiskers twitching or the breeze ruffling their fur.

Once he was sure the area was clear, he darted from the shade of the creosote bush into the open. About halfway to the weeds where the grasshoppers were, he froze again.

A movement to the side caught his sharp eye. There was a white thing. The skull of a cow, parched by years in the bright sun and polished smooth by the desert wind and sand. The movement came from inside. There was straw there. A mother mouse scampered around, frantically sniffing and searching.

“My children!” she squeaked. “Where are my children?”

Another movement. A young mouse scampered from the pile of rocks near the grasshoppers. Running in a zigzag, he scurried across the sand
and into the cow skull. “A snake, Mama. He bit Wiggles and Squeakie. We ran for the rocks, like you told us to do. But they fell down and couldn't get up. The snake ate them.”

“Where are Snout and Bouncy?” The mother poked her head out the nose hole of the skull and looked about.

“We're here.” Two more mice darted from the rocks and into the skull. A grasshopper fluttered from a prickly pear to the stalk of an Apache plume, just behind them. For a second, the roadrunner thought about the mice. They were tasty and filling, but he had his mouth set for a nice, juicy grasshopper.

Without another thought of the poor mice, he ran, crouching low so the rocks would shield his approach. Once there, he straightened. The fattest grasshopper chewed on a saltbush leaf beneath a clump of the large papery-looking seed wings.

In the blink of an eye, he sprang to the top of the rock. The grasshopper jumped, but it was too slow. The roadrunner grabbed it before it even cleared the leaf. Holding it in his beak for a second, he waited until the thing spit that nasty, foul-smelling tobacco juice, then crunched and swallowed it down.

A second grasshopper jumped from another branch and spread its wings to fly. It took the roadrunner two steps and a quick leap to catch it—in midair.

Now, where's that third one?

The last grasshopper sat at the top of a long, slender blade of buffalo grass. But just as the roadrunner darted toward it, the thing jumped. He slid to a stop in the loose sand, leaned sharply to the right, and charged after the grasshopper again. The thing landed on a baby barrel cactus. Just as he lunged to snap it up, it flew off to the left.

He turned and chased after it once more. After about five tries, he was getting just a bit ticked. “Some roadrunner you are,” he muttered to himself. “Can't even catch a grasshopper. Guess the name Hunter is out. I can't believe this stupid bug's given me the slip. It's always just one step—or jump—ahead of me.”

He made another stab at the grasshopper. Missed again. Buzzing its wings, the bug flew about six feet and disappeared behind a round rock.

Without giving the grasshopper a chance to rest or bend those knobby knees so it could spring again, he darted across the open ground, leaped clear over the rock, and landed on the other side.

There was no buzz. There was no rattle. Just a thump. A sudden pressure, as if a heavy twig had sprung back and hit the top of his toes.