Читать книгу The Case of the Troublesome Lady - John R. Erickson - Страница 7

Chapter Two: Roundup Morning

Okay, everyone take a seat and let’s get on with this, and you might want to take some notes.

Before the break, we were having trouble remembering the purpose of this conversation, but we’ve got that worked out. Slim Chance, the hired hand on this ranch, was groping his way down the hallway at some weird hour of the night, a time when most people and dogs should have been asleep.

That brings us up to seed. Up to speed, let us say, and when I saw the guy, I barked at him because…well, because he looked almost exactly like our profiles of Charlie Monsters. He’d slept on his face and his hair looked like a hotel for rats, and any dog would have barked at him.

No, I take that back. Most ordinary dogs would have run and hidden, but I stood my ground and gave him a blast of barking. He said (this is a direct quote) he said, “Hank, if you don’t shut your gob, I’m going to flush you down the pot.”

Okay, it was Slim, no question about it, and you see how he is when he wakes up? Really grouchy, unbearable. Hey, I was just trying to do my job and he was threatening to flush me down the pot. Oh brother.

But I ride for the brand, I try to get along with these people, so I went to him, down-shifted the tail into Good Dog Wags, and tried to give him some comfort and support and, you know, tell him that the day might turn out okay.

“Get that nose away from me! I can’t stand a cold nose in the morning.”

Fine. If he didn’t like my nose, I would use it to comfort someone else. What a grouch.

He dragged himself through the house, went to the front door, and threw it open, and that gave me the missing clue on the Morning Clue List. Remember those “creepy sounds” that had started this whole incident with the barking and so forth? Well, the creepy sounds had come from a strong norther that had blown in.

What’s a norther? It’s a cold front that packs strong winds that rattle the windows and moan through the eaves and cause the house to creak. We start getting those northers in the fall, and they’re always creepy. This was October, so it was right on schedule.

He slammed the door and ran a hand through his rat’s nest (hair) and stared at the floor. “Great. I’ve got to be ahorseback at daylight. Yesterday was a perfect day, but now we get a hat-chasing, dirt-eating, tail-freezing norther. Baloney.”

Well, I could have told him about the norther and the cold wind. I’d picked it up on radar while he was snoring in his bed, but cowboys don’t listen to their dogs. When we try to help, they tell us to dry up.

In many ways, this is a lousy job. Have I mentioned that before? Maybe so.

He shuffled back to his bedroom and started plundering through the closet for his Cold Weather Outfit. I wasn’t there to watch, but I had a pretty good idea what he was looking for: silk long-john underwear, wool shirt, wool vest, brush jacket, silk wild rag, and lined gloves.

That was his Cold Weather Outfit. He hadn’t worn it since last April and parts of it were scattered all over the house, just where he dropped them the last time he used them. If he’d asked my opinion, I would have suggested something sensible, such as, “If you’ll put your stuff away in a certain place, you might be able to find it when you need it.”

But he didn’t ask my opinion and he had to chase down every scrap of clothing, and I had to listen to him mutter and grumble. You want to hear some of it?

“Where’s my silks? The frazzling mice ate a hole in my vest! Somebody stole my wild rag. If the right glove’s here, where’s the left one?”

On and on. Oh, another thing I would have suggested, if he’d asked my opinion: “If you’ll find your stuff the night before, you’ll be ready to go in the morning.” But he doesn’t want any advice from his dogs.

It was kind of sad, really. I mean, what’s the point of having a top-of-the-line, blue-ribbon cowdog on the staff…never mind. Don’t get me started on this.

Whilst he was reinventing the world, I went looking for Drover. Had you noticed that he vanished when Slim came creeping out of the bedroom? He did, and we’re talking about “poof.”

I figured I’d find him hiding under the coffee table, one of his favorite bunker locations, but he wasn’t there. I made a pass through the kitchen and found him hiding behind the trash receptacle.

“What are you doing back there?”

“Who was that guy?”

“It was Slim. This is his house. Who else would be coming out of his bedroom?”

“Well, he looked different. I didn’t want to take any chances.”

“Oh brother.”

“Well, you barked at him.”

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

“Too too too.”

“Not not not!”

“Did too, and I took cover.”

I heaved a sigh and searched for patience. “Okay, maybe I barked at him, but where were you when I needed backup?”

“I scrammed.”

“Five Chicken Marks, and this will go into my report. Now come out of there. You look ridiculous.”

“Oh, I think I’ll stay here, just in case.”

“Ten Chicken Marks.”

I left him there, cringing behind the garbage container. What a weird little mutt. I’ve thought many times about laying him off, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It would break his mother’s heart if he got fired. I mean, she always thought he’d grow up to be a bum and the sad part is that he did.

This gives you a little glimpse into the problems I face, running this ranch. The cowboys don’t listen to their dogs and my assistant in the Security Division is a little scaredy-cat who hides behind trash cans. And cold northers blow in without consulting me.

Oh well, we trudge on.

A horn blew outside the house. An unidentified vehicle had arrived and Slim came thundering out of the bedroom. Good, he was wearing more than his underwear this time, and was actually dressed in his Winter Outfit.

I was just standing there, minding my own business, and he stampeded right over me. “Out of the way, dog, it’s Loper, and I’ve still got to saddle my horse!”

Well, excuse me!

He blundered his way into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed his Portable Breakfast, a boiled turkey neck. Back in the living room, he took a bite, pulled on his brush jacket, slapped on his felt hat, grabbed his chaps and a flashlight, and yelled, “Dogs, outside, chop chop! We’re burning daylight.”

For his information, we were not burning daylight. There wasn’t any daylight to burn. It was still black dark, but I got his point. He wanted us out of the house. That must have been the hidden meaning behind “chop chop.” It meant “hurry up.” I guess. Who knows what these guys are trying to say?

While he took another bite off the turkey neck, he held the door open and I slipped outside. Drover lollygagged behind and squirted through the opening. Out on the porch, he felt the wind and said, “Oh my gosh, it’s freezing out here!”

He happened to be right. That was a nasty, cold, north wind, and it cut like hot butter through a wooden nickel.

A pickup and stock trailer were parked in front of the house, the motor running and the lights on. Nobody had cleared this with me, so I rushed…okay, it was Loper, so I passed him through Security. I mean, he owned the ranch.

Slim switched on his flashlight and headed toward the saddle shed. Loper got out of the pickup and followed. “You’re not saddled yet?”

“No, I ain’t saddled yet, ‘cause you showed up thirty minutes early. You said to be ready at seven. It’s six-thirty. At seven o’clock, I’ll be saddled and ready.”

“Well, you’re always thirty minutes late, so I came thirty minutes early.”

“He told us to be there at daylight, seven-thirty. You can’t gather cattle in the dark. What’s the point of showing up early to a roundup?”

“I’d rather be early than late.”

“I know. You think it’s fun to show up early, so we can all stand around in the dark and talk about how dark it is.”

Loper laughed. “Boy, you’re a bundle of joy in the morning. You must have missed your coffee.”

“I did, ‘cause you pulled up in front of my house and started blowing your stinking horn—half an hour early.”

“So no breakfast?”

“I’m eating it right now.”

“Probably bacon and eggs, grits, hash browns, and pancakes with maple syrup.”

“Turkey neck. You want a bite?”

“Ha. No. Hurry up.”

They ducked their heads against the wind, held onto their hats, and headed for the saddle shed. I followed, just to make sure they didn’t mess anything up. I have to keep a close eye on those two.