Basil in the Wild West 1 AT THE BORDER
PERCHED ON THE BACK OF a burro, Basil and I peered into the distance, paws shielding our eyes against the blazing sun.

“At long last—the Arizona border!” declared the detective. “I wonder what awaits us in the wild and wonderful West.”

He stroked the burro’s shaggy neck. “Here we part. A thousand thanks for transporting us from Mexico City. You’ll be missed!”

“Greatly missed, dear Carmencita,” said I.

She turned her head to regard us fondly. Tiny tears glistened in her large brown eyes.

“I’ll miss you both. Never have I carried passengers so famous—Basil of Baker Street, the Sherlock Holmes of the Mouse World! And you, Dr. Dawson, author of the books about Basil, the world’s best detective.”

“Second best, my dear burro,” said the sleuth. “Mr. Holmes is first. I study at his feet in Baker Street. But here’s someone to inspect our passports and luggage. Will you kneel?”

Long ears flopping, she knelt, waited ’til we’d scurried down, then smiled and left us.

As she jogged southward, I recalled our exciting Mexican adventures. . . .

I, Dr. David Q. Dawson, am a medical mouse. Basil and I share lodgings in the cellar of Baker Street, 221B, where dwell Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Tall and lean, with a hawklike profile, Basil resembles his hero as much as a mouse may resemble a man.



We’d gone overseas to Mexico in 1895. A famous painting, the Mousa Lisa, had been stolen. Basil tracked down the thief and the masterpiece.

Then I was held hostage by El Bruto and Professor Ratigan, Basil’s long-time enemy, who tried to rule the mice of Mexico. Basil rescued me, and had the criminals put in prison.

Lord Hathaway, British Mouse Ambassador to Mexico, asked Basil to investigate a mystery at a mouse hotel in the Grand Canyon, owned by the Thorbridges, his former cook and butler. Basil had agreed to take the case.

And now, near Arizona, we were meeting Chief Celada, of the Mexican border policemice. He was also head customs officer, examining all goods brought into or taken out of Mexico.

(By the way, during the events narrated on these pages, I kept expecting Ratigan, an escape artist, to appear, seeking revenge. But he stayed safely behind bars, and the cases in this book deal only with American criminals.)

Celada recognized us at once, and led us to his rambling Spanish-style home nearby.

“Es su casa! My house is yours! Please be our guests overnight. After so many nights on the road, you must be weary indeed.”

We accepted. After dinner, Mrs. Celada served a tray of many cheeses—Asadero from Mexico, Lipto from Hungary, Feta from Greece, Domiati from Egypt, Asiago from Italy, Bleu from France, Anatolian from Turkey, and others.

Nibbling Camembert, Basil said the Emperor Napoleon had named it, after the tiny town of Camembert where he’d first tasted it, and had even kissed the waitress who’d served him.

We next discussed crime, and I asked Celada whether any smuggling went on.

He sighed deeply. “I know that smugglers operate constantly, smiling all the while, but I haven’t a shred of proof! All along the border from Texas to New Mexico to Arizona to California we search and question mice, but haven’t captured a single smuggler. They’ve made fools of all the border policemice! You see, in Mexico, objects long buried beneath the soil are often discovered. Some are hundreds of years old, and are valuable antiquities. It is against Mexican law to remove these originals from our country. Yet I hear that outside our land dishonest collectors are buying our ancient relics from the head of a huge smuggling ring.”

Basil sat erect, eyes agleam. “Chief, I’ve not used my wits on a case in weeks. My brain may be rusting away! Pray tell me about the Case of the Smiling Smugglers.”

“Teresa, please give Basil some of the background,” said Celada. “I’ll chime in later.”

We sat back to listen.