The Case of the Bone-Stalking Monster (3 page)

Chapter Four: Here's a Fresh Chapter

T
here, we've changed chapters. Drover was pondering my question, if you recall. At last he gave his answer.

“The point is that if you sleep all the time, there's not much difference between day and night. I guess.”

“I see. There's a certain amount of truth in what you say, Drover, but allow me to point out one small flaw in your ointment.”

“Pigs say ‘oint.'”

I stared at the runt. “No, as a matter of fact, they don't say ‘oint.' They say ‘oink,' oink with a K. It's a well-known fact that pigs and hogs are unable to pronounce Ts.”

“Aw, you're just teasin'.”

“Not at all, Drover. It's scientific truth that pigs and hogs . . .”

“What's the difference between a pig and a hog? I've always wondered.”

“Then it's good that you asked, Drover. That's how we learn and expand our minds, by inquiring about things we don't understand.”

“Yeah, and I don't understand why water is always so wet. And how come chickens move their heads when they walk. We dogs don't walk that way.”

“That's correct, Drover, and you've made an interesting observation there.”

“Yeah, but what's the answer?”

“The answer is very simple, as most answers tend to be. Your ordinary chicken moves his head when he walks because his head is connected to his legs. Do you know about clocks and pendulums?”

“No, I've never had a clock.”

“Drover, I'm aware that you've never had a clock. Even if you had a clock, you couldn't tell time.”

“Yeah, if I could tell time, I'd tell it to speed up, 'cause I sure get bored sometimes.”

“Yes, well, the source of your boredom is yourself, Drover. It's a well-known fact that boring personalities suffer from boredom.”

“I'll be derned. I knew it was something.”

I began pacing back and forth in front of him, as I often do when I am plunged into deep thoughts.

“Yes, if you would concentrate on being less boring, you would be less bored. It all fits together.”

“Yeah, and you know what? I chewed on a board one time and got splinters in my mouth.”

“There, you see? That's exactly my point. Chew­ing on boards is a way of relieving boredom, but it provides only temporary relief because it doesn't go to the root of the heart.”

“I'll be derned. You mean hearts have roots?”

I couldn't help chuckling at his nativity. “Drover, of course they do. Trees have roots. Teeth have roots. All things that are rooted in reality have roots.”

“What about root beer?”

“Inside every glass of root beer, Drover, there lurks a root.”

“How come it lurks?”

“It lurks because . . . because you ask so many stupid questions, and I'm afraid we're out of time.”

“Oh darn. I wanted to ask about the chicken who swallowed the clock.”

All at once my lips rose into a snarl, and I found myself glaring at him. “The chicken didn't swallow a clock, you meathead, and stop talking. I came down here on a very important mission and you've got me so scrambled, I can't remember what it was.”

“I love scrambled eggs.”

“Hush! Not one more word.”

“Okay.”

My snarl turned into a growl. “You just said one more word.”

“I did?”

“Yes, you did. I told you not to say one more word, and you said okay. For your information, okay is one word.”

“I thought it was two letters.”

“No, it's one word, and I forbid you to say one more word.”

“O.K.”

“That's better.” I began pacing again. My brains had turned into a junkyard. “Now, where was I—and don't answer, Drover. I'm asking myself, not you.”

“Okay.”

“It was something very important, a problem that absolutely couldn't wait and had to be ad­dressed immediately.”

“Well, if ‘O.K.' is two letters instead of one word, maybe the two letters have to be addressed.”

I stared into the vacuum of his eyes for a long moment. I remembered the two letters that Slim and Loper had addressed and put into the mailbox.

Did Drover know something about that puzzling event, something that he wasn't telling? Was this a clue that promised to lead my investigation off into an entirely different direction?

“Drover, let me ask you one question. Do the letters I-R-S mean anything to you?”

“Well, let's see here. I-R-S. I are confused. ‘Confused' starts with an S, so maybe that's what it means.”

“‘Confused' starts with a C, Drover.”

“Gosh, I guess I'm confuseder than I thought.”

The breath hissed out of my chest. Suddenly I felt that I was being crushed by the weight of my job, the weight of the investigation, and above all, the weight of Drover's dingbat questions.

And his answers too. His dingbat answers were just as weird as his dingbat questions.

I marched several steps away, blinked my eyes, took several deep breaths, and tried to clear the sawdust out of my head. Then, in a flash, it hit me.

I whirled around. “I've got it, Drover. I just remembered why I came streaking down here.”

“Oh good, 'cause I'd almost forgotten.”

“Yes, I had come pretty close to forgetting myself.”

“Yeah, and if you forgot yourself, you'd really be lost.”

I forked him with a gaze of purest steel. “What?”

“I said . . . well, let's see here.” He scratched his right ear. “If you went someplace and forgot to take yourself, you'd be out there all alone. I guess.”

“Hmmm, yes, that's true, I suppose, but that's a horse of a different color.”

“I got hoarse once. Barked all night. Made my throat raw.”

“Drover, hush. I was leading up to a very important point, which is that only moments ago, someone stole . . .”

My gaze fell upon a small pile of something between Drover's paws. I hadn't noticed it until now. “What is that between your paws, Drover?”

“My paws?” His eyes drifted down and settled on the objects. “Well, let's see here.”

“They look like bones to me. Three bones.”

“Yes, they do. Look like bones. Sure do.”

I sniffed the air. “Furthermore, they smell like bones.”

He sniffed. “I'll be derned, they do. Smell like. Bones.”

“If they look like bones and smell like bones, then by simple logic we arrive at the conclusion that they are . . . what?”

“Uh . . . bones?”

“Very good.” I lumbered over to him and stuck my nose in his face. “Three bones, Drover, the exact number of bones that were stolen from me at the yard gate. Is it possible, could it be that you stole three bones from the Head of Ranch Security? From your superior? From one of the few friends you have left in this world?”

“Well, I . . .”

“Because if you did, Drover, then you are a thieving, scheming, traitorous, treacherous little pick­pocket.”

“Oh my gosh, don't say those things, Hank!”

“It's true, isn't it? Out with it! I want the truth, the holey truth, the awful, dreadful truth. Go ahead and confess, Drover, before it's too late.”

“Well . . .” He was so shook up, I thought he might start crying. “All right. I confess.”

“I knew it, I knew it!”

“I confess that I saw . . . a Bone Monster!”

An eerie silence moved around us. I stared at the runt. I could hardly believe my ears. The words had gone through me like a bolt.

“What did you just say?”

“I said . . . when?”

“Just now. Repeat what you just said.”

“Oh, okay.” He rolled his eyes and wadded up his face in an expression of . . . something. Great concentration, I suppose, or total confusion. I couldn't tell. At last he spoke. “Was it something about clocks and chickens?”

“No.”

“Hogs and pigs?”

“No. You were confessing, Drover, and you said something about a . . . a Bone Monster.”

“Oh yeah. What a scary guy!”

I marched a few steps away. “Drover, I've been on this ranch for many years and I've never seen or heard of a Bone Monster. I don't mean to doubt your word, but tell me more. Did you actually see this . . . this thing steal my bones?”

“Oh yeah, you bet, saw it with my own eyes.”

I sensed that the interrogation was entering a critical phase, so I told him to sit down and relax, while I stalked back and forth in front of him.

I mean, this was pretty serious stuff. A Bone Monster, on my ranch? I had to get to the bottom of this.

Chapter Five: Drover's Shocking Story

I
nterrogating a nitwit requires just the right technique, don't you see. It's not as easy as you might suppose.

“All right, Drover, we're entering the Factual Phase of the interrogation. In ordinary language, that means we're searching for the facts, only the facts.”

“Oh good.”

“Question: Where did you see this so-called Bone Monster?”

“Well, let me think here. He was up by the yard gate.”

“Hmmm. That checks out. What did he do that made you think he was stealing my bones?”

“Well, he stole your bones.”

“That checks out too. How many bones, Drover?”

“Three.”

“Describe the Bone Monster.”

“Well, let's see here.” He closed one eye and twisted his mouth. “He was big. And shaggy. And looked like a gorilla, a big shaggy gorilla.”

I marched several steps away, gathering my thoughts. Suddenly I whirled around. “All right, Drover, I can reveal that we've run your story through our files at Data Control and it checks out. We're now convinced that you're telling the truth.”

“That's weird.”

“What?”

“I said, oh good. Oh boy. I'm so happy.”

“Exactly. Now that we've cleared the first turtle, we'll zoom in for more specifics and finer details.” I studied him out of the corner of my eye for a moment. “Drover, there's just one part of your story that doesn't mash. You have told this court that you saw the Bone Monster in the act of stealing my bones, is that correct?”

“I think that's what I said.”

“That IS what you said.”

“Oh good, 'cause that's sure what I wanted to say.”

“Great. But there's a missing chink in the puzzle. If the Bone Monster actually stole my bones, how did you end up with them?”

“Oh gosh, that's a good question. Did you think it up yourself?”

I studied the claws on my right paw. “Oh yes, I handle all these interrogations myself, and coming up with probing questions is just part of my job.”

“Boy, you did a great job.”

“Well thanks, Drover. It's kind of you to say that. A lot of dogs wouldn't have noticed.”

“Yeah, it was a great question. I really en­joyed it.”

“Good. That's . . . hmmm, I seem to have lost my train of thought. Where were we?”

“Well, let's see here.” He yawned. “I think you'd just asked me about the weather.”

“Yes, of course. How's the weather been, Drover?”

“Oh, pretty good. Not too hot and not too cold.” He yawned again. “We could use another rain.”

“Am I boring you? You keep yawning.”

“No, sometimes I yawn, that's all.” He yawned. “See?”

“Yes, I saw that. But back to the weather, it's getting dry, isn't it?”

I waited for his answer. When it didn't come, I swung my gaze around just in time to see his eyelids slam shut. I was about to awaken him with a thunderous roar—I mean, after all, the little dunce had fallen asleep while Court was in session, and sleeping under oath is one of the many things I don't allow on this ranch.

But I caught myself just in time. You see, a plan had begun to form in the darkest outskirts of my mind. It suddenly occurred to me that the bones were sitting there, unwatched and un­guarded.

And they were, after all, MY bones. I had won them, fair and square, in a scuffle with the cat, and gathering information about the Bone Monster could, uh, wait.

I wasn't sure I believed his story anyway. I mean, who ever heard of a Bone Monster?

I cut my eyes from side to side. No one was watching. On silent paws, I crept over to the pile of bones, loaded them up in my enormous jaws, and we're talking about all three at once, and crept away from the gas tanks on padded paws that made not a sound.

Ten feet away, I shifted into a rapid walk, then into a trot, and finally into an easy gliding lope. And whilst I was doing all this, my mind was racing. Where would I deposit this treasure of bones?

I considered a list of secret locations, and re­jected all but one for the same reason: The ground was hard and I hate to dig. Having shrunk my list of options down to one, my decision became very easy.

I would deposit my treasury of bones in Sally May's garden, for her husband had tilled it up just weeks before. Perhaps in some strange manner, known only to women, she had perceived that her loyal dog would soon need a soft place to bury some precious bones.

They are very perceptive, you know. The ladies, that is. Sometimes they seem able to read minds and forecast the future. It's called Women's Insti­tution, and it can be pretty spooky.

Well, if Sally May's institution had caused her to plow up the garden just for me, it seemed totally right that I should accept her act of kindness. I mean, she was probably aware that digging in hard ground will dull a dog's claws, and that sharp claws are very important to the, uh, overall security program of the ranch.

It all fit together. Only one obstacle stood in my way. The alleged garden was enclosed inside a hogwire fence, but it happened that hogwire fences were no big deal to me. Clenching my enormous jaws around the bones, I went into a deep crouch, took a huge gulp of air, and launched myself into the air.

Charge! Bonzai!

BONK.

Okay, we had forgotten about that strand of barbed wire above the hogwire. What we had was four feet of hogwire with the single strand of barbed wire above it, and that small fact had altered all our careful calculations and equations and so forth.

It was no big deal, it could have happened to any dog, and it merely etched another mark into a nose that had already been etched by the stupid cat.

And by the way, those had been lucky punches.

Anyways, I made contact with the almost-invisible top wire and took a rude tumble to the ground. OOF! Knocked the breath out of me for a second, but I'm no quitter. I reprogrammed all of the launch data, sank into another deep crouch, and went flying over the top like a . . .

Tomato plant? It appeared that she—Sally May, that is—she had not only tilled the garden but had also set out some tomato plants, so to speak. No­body had informed me of this, and it's very hard to operate a ranch when nobody tells you anything.

They expect us to know everything, and they're very quick to pass out blame when a small mistake is made, but ask for current information and everybody's too busy to file their reports.

But the important thing was that I had made it into the garden area and had wrecked only one of Sally May's tomato plants. One or two. Several. But it was a small price to pay for a successful mission, and I knew that Sally May would understand.

I mean, those bones were a very precious cargo.

Once in the garden area I set up shop and went to work. I dug a hole in the soft dirt near the northeast corner, dropped the first precious bone into it, and covered it up with my . . . well, with my nose.

Why do we dogs dig holes with our paws and cover them up with our noses? I've seen it happen over and over, and it's always the same. To be perfectly honest, I don't understand it but I do it very well, so maybe it doesn't matter.

I mean, if you can do it, who cares if you understand it? And if you understand it but can't do it, what's the point?

The point was that I buried the first bone, then hurried on and buried the other two, following the exact same procedure: digging with paws, covering with nose.

On completing the third and final bone deposit, I paused to rest a moment, to gaze out upon a job well done and . . .

Suddenly the silence was shattered by a voice coming out of nowhere!

Hey, I had thought I was all alone in the world—just me and my precious buried bones and the warm glow of a job well done. But hearing the voice behind me, I knew that I was not alone in the world.

The voice startled me, jolted me, so to speak, out of a dreamy state of mining. I jumped, twisted my entire body to the left, and heard myself deliver a kind of gurgling growl. It wasn't my best growl, I'll admit, but very few of us are at our best in such awkward moments.

The important thing is that I did manage to fire off a growl or two before . . . well, landing in the midst of another tomato plant. And, yes, maybe I transplanted a few sprigs of lettuce.

She had—Sally May, that is—it appeared that she had planted a few rows of lettuce, but of course nobody had turned in that report either, and when they don't turn in their paperwork, how am I supposed to know where the silly lettuce is planted?

Who can run a ranch when he has to tiptoe through the tulips and lettuce and tomatoes? We have to keep the Big Picture in mind, don't you see, and . . .

I turned all my sensory equipment toward the sound of the voice, half expecting to see a huge shaggy . . . okay, relax. It was Slim. He was leaning on a fencepost.

Grinning at me.