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S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 9 0 of them would go all twitchy, just like you described, and I realized that you hadn't mentioned whether or not they can climb or if they're even legal to shoot. They must still be quite close, because I could hear them shuffling about in the brush once it got dark." I looked at Goof and Goof looked at me, and with a knowing nod we immediately set up a defensive position, leaning back-to-back with our rifles raised to our shoulders and our lights on full bright, sweeping the surrounding understory. Then, to all our surprise, Goof started howling. This continued for several seconds, and when he suddenly stopped, he looked back up the tree at Mr. Ed and declared, "There . . . that oughta' do it . . . 'dillers scared spitless of swamp wolves." Then looking at me he said, "Best climb up and get him." T hem boys from Isles claimed they received an urgent message that night on Chad's satellite phone, and the next morning they rather haphazardly packed up the Land Rover and headed out. Left Goof a fine big tip, paper-clipped to a scribbled note, like they were paying a ransom or something. Said they'd maybe try to make it back next year when they weren't so pressed for time. And oh, by the way—"Do armadillos migrate?" Note: Signed copies of Michael Altizer's latest book, Nineteen Years To Sunrise, can be ordered online at SportingClassicsStore.com— click on "BOOKS." Or simply call (800) 849-1004. The author always welcomes and appreciates your comments, questions, and input. Please keep in touch at Mike@AltizerJournal.com. and to their great relief, no armadillos. Me 'n Goof laid low for the next couple of days, leaving the entire ranch to the Royals. We would take them to their stands each morning as soon as the sun was high enough for them to see without having to use their high-tech hand torches, then leave them to hunt their way back to camp for lunch. We'd drive them to their stands in mid-afternoon, and they would each arrive back in camp well before dark. It was late on day four that Sir Edward failed to show up. A s dusk approached, young Chad began showing increasing signs of concern for his hero, and by dark, Goof decided it might be time to play fetch. So we all piled into Goof's old pickup and drove a half-mile to the head of the trail where Sir Ed's treestand was positioned. Moving as silently and discreetly as possible, we were within 60 yards of where we expected to find him before we fired up our flashlights. The response was immediate. A blaze of tightly-focused light beamed from above the trail in our direction, scribing the darkness in wild arcs as it cut through the tall pines surrounding us, followed by the shrill and urgent summons of Great Britain's finest, frantically inquiring if we were armed. Chad tippy-toed up close to Goof and me as we made our way to the base of Mr. Alice's—pardon me, Mr. Toaraster-Alice's—tree. Directing our lights upward, we could see that Sir Edward appeared to be more-or-less okay, though somewhat disheveled and emotionally compromised. "What'cha still doin' up that tree there, Alice?" Goof calmly inquired. "Armadillos!!" Sir Ed exclaimed. "A pair of them. They showed up an hour before dark, acting very strangely. Kept waddling around and bumping into each other and sniffing the ground around the base of my tree, and every once in a while one