"I'll make a report, anyway," the policeman promised.

"How about this?" Curly said. "How about you put some extra patrols around here?"

"I'll speak to my sergeant."

"You do that," Curly grumbled. "I got some people I can speak to myself. This is gettin' ridiculous."

"Yes, sir." Officer Delinko noticed that three portable latrines were strapped on the back of the flatbed truck. He caught himself smiling at the name painted on the blue doors: TRAVELIN' JOHNNY.

"For the construction crew," Curly explained, "for when we get this project started. If we ever get started."

"Did you check 'em out?" asked the policeman.

Curly frowned. "The Johns? What for?"

"You never know."

"Nobody in their right mind's gonna fool around with a toilet." The foreman snorted.

"Can I have a look?" Officer Delinko asked.

"Be my guest."

The policeman climbed up on the bed of the truck. From the outside, the portable latrines appeared untouched. The cargo straps were cinched tight, and the doors to all three units were closed. Officer Delinko opened one and peeked his head inside. The stall smelled heavily of disinfectant.

"Well?" Curly called up to him.

"A-okay," said the policeman.

"Truth is, there ain't much to wreck on a port-a-potty."

"I suppose not." Officer Delinko was about to shut the door when he heard a muffled noise-was it a splash? The policeman stared uneasily at the blackness beneath the plastic seat. Ten seconds passed; then he heard it again.

Definitely a splash.

"What're you doin' up there?" Curly demanded.

"Listening," replied Officer Delinko.

"Listenin' to what?"

Officer Delinko undipped the flashlight from his belt. Edging forward, he aimed the light down the toilet hole.

Curly heard a cry and watched in surprise as the policeman burst from the doorway of the latrine, leaping off the flatbed like an Olympic hurdler.

What now? the foreman wondered unhappily.

Officer Delinko picked himself off the ground and smoothed the front of his uniform. He retrieved his flashlight and tested it to make sure the bulb wasn't broken.

Curly handed him his hat, which had come to rest near an owl burrow. "So. Let's hear it," the foreman said.

The policeman nodded grimly. "Alligators," he declared.

"You're kiddin' me."

"I wish I was," said Officer Delinko. "They put alligators in your potties, sir. Real live alligators."

"More than one?"

"Yes, sir."

Curly was flabbergasted. "Are they… big gators?"

Officer Delinko shrugged, nodding toward the Travelin' Johnnys. "I imagine all of 'em look big," he said, "when they're swimming under your butt."

Miss Hennepin had notified Roy's mother, so he had to repeat the story when he got home from school, and once more when his father returned from work.

"Why was this young man choking you? You didn't do something to provoke him, did you?" asked Mr. Eberhardt.

"Roy says he picks on everybody," Mrs. Eberhardt said. "But even so, fighting is never the right thing."

"It wasn't a fight," Roy insisted. "I only punched him to make him let go. Then I got off the bus and ran."

"And that's when you were struck by the golf ball?" his father asked, wincing at the thought.

"He ran a long, long way," his mother said.

Roy sighed. "I was scared." He didn't like lying to his parents but he was too worn out to explain the real reason that he had run so far.

Mr. Eberhardt examined the bruise over his son's ear. "You took a nasty shot here. Maybe Dr. Shulman ought to have a look."

"No, Dad, I'm okay." The paramedics had checked him out on the golf course, and the school nurse at Trace Middle had spent forty-five minutes "observing" him for signs of a possible concussion.

"He seems to be fine," agreed Roy's mother. "The other young man, however, has a broken nose."

"Oh?" Mr. Eberhardt's eyebrows arched.

To Roy's surprise, his father didn't seem angry. And while he wasn't exactly beaming at Roy, there was unmistakable affection-and possibly even pride-in his gaze. Roy thought it was a good opportunity to renew his plea for leniency.

"Dad, he was strangling me. What else could I do? What would you have done?" He pulled down his collar to display the bluish finger marks on his neck.

Mr. Eberhardt's expression darkened. "Liz, did you see this?" he asked Roy's mother, who nodded fretfully. "Does the school know what that thug did to our son?"

"The vice-principal does," Roy piped up. "I showed her."

"What did she do?"

"Suspended me from the bus for two weeks. Plus I have to write an apology-"

"What happened to the other boy? Wasn't he disciplined, too?"

"I don't know, Dad."

"Because this is assault," Mr. Eberhardt said. "You can't choke another person. It's against the law."

"You mean, they could arrest him?" Roy didn't want to get Dana Matherson thrown in jail, because then Dana's mean and equally large friends might come after him. Being the new kid in school, Roy didn't need to be making those types of enemies.

His mother said, "Roy, honey, they're not going to arrest him. But he needs to be taught a lesson. He could seriously hurt somebody, picking on smaller kids the way he does."

Mr. Eberhardt sat forward intently. "What's the boy's name?"

Roy hesitated. He wasn't sure exactly what his father did for a living, but he was aware it had something to do with law enforcement. Occasionally, when talking to Roy's mother, Mr. Eberhardt would refer to his working for the "D.O.J.," which Roy had deciphered as the United States Department of Justice.

As much as Roy disliked Dana Matherson, he didn't believe the kid was worthy of the U.S. government's attention. Dana was just a big stupid bully; the world was full of them.

"Roy, please tell me," his father pressed.

"The boy's name is Matherson," Mrs. Eberhardt chimed in. "Dana Matherson."

At first Roy was relieved that his father didn't write the name down, hoping it meant that he wasn't going to pursue the incident. Then Roy remembered that his father seemed to have a supernatural memory-for instance, he could still recite the batting averages of the entire starting lineup for the 1978 New York Yankees.

"Liz, you should call the school tomorrow," Mr. Eberhardt said to Mrs. Eberhardt, "and find out if-and how-this boy will be disciplined for attacking Roy."

"First thing in the morning," Mrs. Eberhardt promised.

Roy groaned inwardly. It was his own fault that his parents were reacting so strongly. He should never have shown them the marks on his neck.

"Mom, Dad, I'll be fine. Honest I will. Can't we just let the whole thing drop?"

"Absolutely not," his father said firmly.

"Your dad's right," said Roy's mother. "This is a serious matter. Now come to the kitchen and let's put some ice on your bump. Afterwards you can work on that apology letter."

On one wall of Roy's bedroom was a poster from the Livingston rodeo that showed a cowboy riding a ferocious humpbacked bull. The cowboy held one hand high in the air, and his hat was flying off his head. Every night before turning off the lights, Roy would lie on his pillow and stare at the poster, imagining that he was the sinewy young bull rider in the picture. Eight or nine seconds was an eternity on top of an angry bull, but Roy imagined himself hanging on so tightly that the animal couldn't shake him no matter how furiously it tried. The seconds would tick by until finally the bull would sink to its knees in exhaustion. Then Roy would calmly climb off, waving to the roaring crowd. That's how he played the scene in his mind.

Maybe someday, Roy thought hopefully, his father would be transferred back to Montana. Then Roy could learn to ride bulls like a cowboy.