The Case of the Midnight Rustler (2 page)

Chapter Two: Okay, Maybe I'll Tell, If You Promise Not to Laugh

W
hat a cheap trick. If Loper had wanted me to stop barking, couldn't he have just said so? I would have been glad to . . . but no, he being a comedian and a humorist and a childish prankster, he had to sneak up behind me and BUZZ ME ON THE BOHUNKUS WITH THAT STUPID AIR WRENCH!!

I thought I'd been shot with a death ray, and no, it wasn't funny when I tried to escape and ran into the side of the machine shed.

It wasn't funny at all, and if I catch you laughing at my misfortune, I'll . . . I don't know what I'll do.

Yes I do. I'll hold my breath until I'm dead, grave­yard dead, and then you'll be sorry. Nobody ever misses a good loyal dog until he's gone, and then they cry and wish they could take back all the mean and hateful things they did to him, but they can't because it's too late.

It was a cheap, shabby trick, and I left a print of my nose in the side of the machine shed, and yes, it did hurt.

How much sympathy did I get from the smallminded people who had witnessed the tragedy? You can guess. Very little. None. I thought Slim and Loper would pass out from lack of oxygen, they laughed so hard.

Had I laughed at their problems? Made fun out of their pathetic attempts to fix up the mower? No, but that didn't stop them from . . . oh well.

This job pays the same, whether they're patting you on the head or making you the butt of their laughingstock.

In typical childish cowboy fashion, they found great pleasure in my misfortune. Fine. I didn't care. Through watering eyes, I glared daggers at them. Someday they would be sorry, and until then . . .

Drover arrived at that very moment. “Hi Hank. Did you just hear a loud crash?”

I gave him a withering glare. “I WAS the loud crash, you moron, and you're just lucky I wasn't killed.”

“Boy, that was lucky. What happened?”

“The owner of this dismal place set off an air wrench under my tail, and I came within inches of destroying the entire south side of the barn.”

“I'll be derned. That's quite a tale.”

“Thanks. It's the best one I've ever had.”

“Oh, I don't know. You've had some pretty good ones.”

“No, this is the original equipment, Drover. It's been through some hard times, and there's a tale behind every misfortune it's seen.”

“Yep, there's a tail behind every dog.”

“Exactly. But dead dogs have no tales.”

“Yeah. I wonder what they do with all of 'em.”

“Oh, they're passed down from generation to generation and become part of our collective folklore. One of these days, Drover, our children will be telling of our adventures.”

“I don't have any.”

“That's because you're too chicken. Chickens miss out on all the adventures.”

“I mean children.”

“Chickens have children, Drover, but no adventures. Chicken children are called ‘chicks.' They're hatched from eggs.”

“Boy, I love eggs.”

“And mother chickens love their children.”

“Yeah, but I don't have any. And even if I did, they wouldn't want my tail. It's too short.”

“Actually, Drover, the shortest tales are often the best. There's an art to telling a story in just a few words.”

“Gosh, Hank, that's the first nice thing you've ever said about my tail. Always before, you made fun of it. Thanks.”

“You're certainly welcome.” I stared at him for a moment. “Are we involved in the same conversation?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Drover, sometimes when I talk to you, I begin to wonder if I'm going insane.”

“Yeah, I've wondered about that myself.”

“Let's just drop it. Who is this trespasser who just pulled up in the strange pickup?”

“I don't know, but I sure barked at him.”

“You barked at him, Drover, but he came on the ranch anyway. You need to work on your barking. You couldn't scare a flea on a grandpa's knee.” All at once he sat down and began scratching his left ear. “Don't scratch while I'm talking to you.”

“I've got a flea.”

“Of course you do. If you'd work on your barking, you wouldn't have so many . . .”

By George, all at once I had a flea problem myself. I could feel the little wretch crawling around on my . . . hee hee, ha ha . . . on my belly, and it tickled. I jumped into the air, bent myself double, and spun around in a circle, trying to catch up with my . . .

You know what? As long as a dog runs in circles, he can never catch up with his own anatomy. It keeps moving, see. You have to shut everything down, sit on the floor, and attack the stupid flea with teeth and lips. That requires deep concentration and large amounts of self-deception.

Self-discipline, I should say.

I got 'er done, but it was no easy deal. I bit the flea and the flea bit the dust, and at that point I was ready to pursue the investigation.

Who was this guy who had dared to drive his pickup onto MY ranch in broad daylight? I began by observing that he was an older man, maybe 65 or 70. He walked slowly, wore a battered felt hat and khaki pants and shirt.

His name was Uncle Johnny. I knew that be­cause Loper said, “Well, by gollies, Uncle Johnny! What brings you over here to the poor side of the county? And how are you at fixing hay mowers?”

Uncle Johnny studied the mess on the floor. “Was anybody killed in this wreck?”

“Not yet,” said Slim, “but if Loper's disposition don't improve, he's liable to become the first casu­alty. He gets kind of snarly during hay season, and he wasn't real sweet to start with.”

Uncle Johnny chuckled to himself. “Yes sir, I used to get that-a-way myself. Old age don't have too many blessings, but one of 'em is that you can leave the hay work to them that's young and dumb enough to take it.”

“Well, we ain't so young,” said Slim, “but we've doubled up on the dumb.”

Whilst they were making small talk, I decided to slip outside and attend to the routine business of applying our ranch's trademark on Uncle Johnny's tires. A guy never knows when that trademark will come in handy. It's something we try to do every time a strange vehicle comes onto the place.

I had completed my work on the two front tires and was on my way to the left rear when I heard an odd sound. I stopped and listened. There it was again. It sounded like . . . I wasn't sure what it sounded like.

The last gasps of a drowning victim? A diesel engine that needed some repair work?

It appeared to be coming from the bed of the pickup, so I slipped around to the rear, went into a deep crouch position, leaped up into the back end, and landed right in the middle of something huge and hairy.

Yikes, what was that thing? A huge fur coat? A dead horse? Whatever it was, it had a head, a BIG head, and it rose from the dead, so to speak, and revealed two sleepy eyes. For a long, tense moment, I stared at it and it stared back at me.

At last I was able to fight back my feelings of shock and surprise and say, “I don't know who you are, fella, but don't get any smart ideas. We've got this place surrendered.” I stared at him. “Sur­rounded, I should say. Holy smokes, are you a horse or a dog?”

I mean, this guy was HUGE!

He grinned and yawned and spoke in a slow voice. “Howdy. Name's Brewster. Where we at?”

“You're in the back of someone's pickup, Brewster, but also on my ranch. That's the part that concerns me. I'm the Head of Ranch Security, you see.”

“Aw heck. Last thing I knew, we were in front of Uncle Johnny's house. I guess I fell asleep.” He yawned again. “Takes a lot of sleep to keep this old body percolatin'.”

“Yes, that's a large body, Brewster.”

“Thanks. Everybody says that. I don't feel all that big, but I guess I am.”

“You are, believe me. I'd guess you've got some St. Bernard in you somewhere. I'm not the kind of guy who talks about other dogs having big feet, but those feet of yours are really something.”

“Yeah.” He stood up and stretched. “They always said that I got my big feet and gracefulness from the St. Bernard side, and my ferocious disposition from the German Shepherd side.”

He grinned and yawned again. That made about three yawns in the space of three minutes. Then he lumbered over to the endgate of the pick­up, and in the process of doing that, he bumped into me and stepped on my foot.

It felt like I'd been stepped on by an elephant and run over by a truck. I squalled.

He gave me a sleepy look. “Oops, sorry. I'm a little awkward first thing in the morning. Takes me a while to wake up.”

“Hey Brewster, it's not the first thing in the morning. It's going on ten o'clock, and around here, we figger the day's half over at ten o'clock.”

“Yep, and if a guy's going to catch himself a nap, he ought to do it in the middle of the day.”

He lumbered back to his spot at the front of the pickup, stepped on my foot again, and flopped down. The whole pickup shook when he bedded down. He crossed his paws in front of him and rested his chin on the paws. Then his eyes appeared to roll back in his head.

“Just one moment, Brewster. I have some questions I'd like to . . .”

“Skaw, snork, skrunk, zzzzzzzzzzz.”

The window of opportunity had slammed shut. Brewster was asleep again.

Chapter Three: Chosen for a Dangerous Assignment

S
o there I was, looking down at a sleeping horse in dog's clothing, and I still didn't know what he was doing on my ranch. I wasn't much inclined to wake him up again. I mean, this dog was obviously a threat to the health and safety of everyone around him. He could land a guy in the vet clinic just by walking across the room.

Those were the biggest feet I'd ever seen, and boy, did they HURT when they stepped on you!

I left him where he lay and returned to the machine shed, in hopes that I might be able to listen in on Uncle Johnny's conversation and piece together a motive for his presence on my ranch.

I knew there was a motive somewhere, had to be. For every action, there's a reaction. For every auto, there's a motive. Uncle Johnny's auto was still parked in front of the machine shed, and my next assignment was to do a little automotive research on the sly.

I slipped into the machine shed on feet that were trained to make no sound whatever, and took up a position in the shadows. For the next several minutes I monitored the conversation, and soon a pattern began to develop.

Piece #1 of the Puzzle: Uncle Johnny was summering 60 head of cows with calves in a pasture called “The Canyon Pasture,” which joined our outfit on the north end.

Piece #2 of the Puzzle: This so-called “Canyon Pasture” was so called because it had a big canyon running through the middle of it. A lot of dogs would have missed this detail, but I picked it up right away. See, if they'd called it the “Creek Pasture,” that would have indicated that . . . well, maybe you get the picture.

Piece #3 of the Puzzle: Uncle Johnny had been coming up short on his calf count and . . . here comes the shocker, so get ready . . .

Piece #4 in the Puzzle: He had begun to suspect that someone or something was STEALING HIS CATTLE.

After he had made this incredible revelation, seven eyes stared at him in disbelief. Seven eyes?

That sounds odd, doesn't it, and there aren't too many ways you can get an odd number of eyes looking on in disbelief. Hang on a second while I run a spreadsheet on this and use some Heavy Duty Math and refigger the count. Let's see:

Loper................. two

Slim.................. two

Me..................... two

Two + Two + Two = 3t + 3w + 3o/t + w + o = 3 + 3 + 3 = 6

Okay, six eyes stared at him in disbelief. Boy, I'll tell you, in the Security Business we'd be lost without spreadsheet analysis and Heavy Duty Math. We use 'em every day, and I hope the kids will take notice of this.

Learn that math, kids. It's very important, especially if you want to go into crinimal work. Well, not exactly crinimal work. That suggests that we're crinimals, which we're not. Far from it. We're working AGAINST the crinimals, and if you want to work against the crinimals, you'd better get your math.

Where was I?

Talking about careers, I guess. Careers are very important, and when you're sliding down the banister of life, be careful not to get a splinter in your career.

A little humor there, but I still can't remember what I was talking about. Sometimes we use humor to conceal the fact that . . .

It really annoys me to launch into an important discussion and then forget the dadgummed subject, makes a guy sound about half-goofy.

Oh boy.

This has never happened to me before, honest.

I'll get it here in just a second.

This is embarrassing.

Okay, I've got it now. Here we go. Seven eyes stared at Uncle Johnny in disbelief. Loper was the first to speak.

“That's a pretty serious charge. There's lots of ground between a short count and cattle theft. I'd like to think we don't have any rustlers around here.”

Uncle Johnny nodded. “I know it's serious, but I've ridden all the outside fences and they're all in good shape. And I rode upon some tire tracks yesterday.”

“Uh-oh.”

“That's what I thought too. Uh-oh. They were made by a pickup and a stock trailer, and they weren't mine. Boys, somebody's been slipping into my pasture at night and stealing my calves. I don't want to believe it, but there she is.”

Loper pulled up a paint bucket and sat down. “What do you intend to do about it?”

Uncle Johnny said that he'd already called the Cattle Raisers inspector and told him to be on the lookout for calves in the UJ brand. Then he hitched up his khaki pants.

“Loper, it's been a while since I put one of these mowers back together, but I think I could do it.”

Loper studied him. “You jumped subjects there, Johnny. Was there supposed to be a step or two between cow thieves and fixing this mower?”

Uncle Johnny narrowed his eyes and grinned. “I thought you might catch that. Here's my deal. If I help you get this mower into the field, maybe you can spare old Slim for a little moonlight work.”

Slim's brows jumped three inches on that. “Whoa now, hold on just a minute. What's moonlight work?”

Uncle Johnny explained his idea. Slim would load a packhorse with camping gear and ride up into the canyon, make camp in an isolated spot, and wait for the rustlers to strike again. Since he wouldn't be taking a pickup, there would be no fresh tire tracks to alert the rustlers.

Pretty slick idea, seemed to me.

“Yeah, well, there's one little detail that bothers me,” said Slim. “Bein' a range detective ain't one of my many skills, and I've got a natural aversion to gettin' myself shot.”

“Oh phooey, you ain't going to get shot. You don't have to catch 'em, son, just get close enough to take down a license number and a description of their pickup. The brand inspector can take it from there.”

“Well . . .”

“It'll be easy as pie. All you have to do is lay around camp and sleep until they come.”

“Now, I can handle that part.”

“You got a good dog?”

Slim's gaze found me in the shadows. I held my head high and wagged my tail. By George, they wanted a good dog? Well, there I was, and it was about time somebody took notice.

Slim shook his head. “Nope, just Hank.”

“There you go. He'll bark and let you know when somebody's in the pasture. Until then, all you have to do is lay back and take life easy—and think about me and Loper down here, trying to get this mower put back together.”

“It's sounding better and better. I believe me and moonlight work could learn to get along.”

Loper slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “You've got yourself a deal. Slim, throw some camping gear together and have your camp set up before dark. We'll slap this mower together and maybe I can get the alfalfa laid down tomorrow morning, before it dries out.”

“What'll I use for a packhorse?”

Loper thought about that for a minute. “Why don't you use that three-year-old colt?”

“He ain't broke, is all.”

“He will be, by the time you get to the canyon. That would be the best thing in the world for that old colt. What do you have to lose?”

Slim rolled his eyes. “Oh, let's see: my life, my clothes, my pride, my reputation . . . little things like that.”

“Well, it's the little things that count, so I know you'll be careful.” Suddenly Loper's smile disappeared. “Slim, there's only one thing about this deal that bothers me.”

“Oh?”

He placed a hand on Slim's shoulder and looked him in the eye. “It won't be easy to carry on this farming without your expert advice and cheerful attitude.”

“I'll bet.”

“But I can accept that. I can even accept the possibility that once you get a packsaddle on old Jughead, he might jump off into the canyon and take you with him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Those are acceptable risks, just part of the honor of being a cowboy.”

“Yalp. Get to the point, Loper, I'm dying to hear this.”

“Slim, the part that really bothers me is that you'll be taking my wife's favorite dog up into the canyons, on a dangerous assignment.”

“I see, uh-huh.”

“And I hope you understand how brokenhearted she'd be if anything was to happen to her beloved Hank.”

My goodness, I had never expected . . . I'd never dreamed that Sally May felt so strongly about, well, ME. I mean, let's face it. She and I had gone through some moments of tension and stress, and on more than one occasion I had been the victim of a misunderstanding.

But hey, let me tell you. Loper's words almost brought tears to my eyes. Suddenly I forgot all the rocks she'd thrown at me, all her cutting remarks about my “odor,” as she called it, all the tacky and hateful words she'd said in anger.

Right then and there, I forgave her everything—because I knew that she really CARED. That means a lot to a dog, and I made a note to myself to give her an extra big juicy lick on the ankle the next time we met. Or maybe even on the face.

Well, it was a very emotional moment for Slim and Loper, I could see that. Their loyal dog and Head of Ranch Security was going off on a dangerous assignment, and . . . well, that's pretty heavy stuff.

Slim nodded his head and, that was odd, seemed to be biting one side of his lip. “Tell Sally May that I'll guard him with my life. Come on, pooch, we've got things to do and places to go.”