Читать книгу The Disappearance of Drover - John R. Erickson - Страница 7

Chapter Two: A Trespassing Badger

Drover heard it, too. “Gosh, what’s that?”

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound natural to me.”

“Me neither. You reckon we ought to bark?”

“Absolutely, yes. Load up Number Three Barks of Alarm and stand by to fire. Ready? Okay, commence barking!”

Boy, you should have heard us. We spread all four legs, took a firm grip on the porch floor, and rattled the windows with an amazing barrage of . . .

“Hank, knock it off! I’m on the phone.”

Huh? Okay, maybe that ringing sound had come from the telephone and, well, we didn’t need to waste good barking on that, but a dog can never be sure about those ringing sounds until he checks them out. In the Security Business, we bark first and ask questions later.

I cancelled the alert and moved toward the screen door so that I could hear Slim’s side of the conversation. Here’s what I heard.

“Lloyd? Well, I’m fine except that we need a rain and I spent most of the day doing plumber work. What? Why yes, I bet I could, and I’d enjoy it, too. Let me check with the boss to be sure. If I don’t call you back, I’ll be there at ten with a horse. Bye.”

He hung up the phone and dialed a number. “Loper? It’s me. They’re shorthanded at the sale barn and need me to help pen cattle tomorrow. I told Lloyd I’d help him, even though I’d rather stay here and dig sewer lines with you.” He laughed, said good-bye, and hung up the phone.

I was sitting in front of the screen door when he came breezing out. The door caught me by surprise and whacked me on the nose. “Out of the way, dogs; I get to play cowboy tomorrow.” He stopped and looked down at us. “And y’all can’t go. Sorry.”

And off he went to feed his horse and hook up the stock trailer.

Well, for his information, I had a long list of jobs to do on the ranch and didn’t have time to go chasing off with him to “play cowboy.” These people seem to think their dogs just sit around . . . hey, I had work to do and a ranch to run, and it sure wasn’t going to break my heart if I missed out on his little adventure.

If the dogs don’t stay home and keep things running, who will?

So that was the end of it. Slim did his chores, returned to the house, fixed himself a canned mackerel sandwich for supper (we didn’t get any of it, not even a bite), and went to bed, leaving the elite troops of the Security Division to sleep on the porch.

It must have been three or four o’clock in the morning when I was awakened by a sound. I lifted my head and focused both ears on a spot of darkness where the sound had . . . there it was again, a scratching sound.

Behind me, I heard Drover’s voice. “What is that?”

“I don’t know, but we’re fixing to find out. Form a line. We’re moving out.”

“It sure is dark.”

“Let’s go.”

We crept off the porch and moved out on silent paws, down the sidewalk, through the yard gate, and into the Great Beyond. We had a sliver of moon, and it gave enough light so that I could see something up ahead. Fifty yards east of the house, I called a halt.

As usual, Drover wasn’t paying attention and ran into me. “Oops, sorry.”

“Drover, did you see what I saw?”

“I didn’t know we had a seesaw.”

“We don’t have a seesaw. I said, did you see what I saw?”

He blinked his eyes and glanced around. “Well, let me think. I saw your tail, but then it stopped and I ran into it.”

“My tail stopped because I stopped. My tail is connected to me, and if you’d pay attention to your business, maybe you’d stop running into me.”

“Oh. Sorry. I guess I was thinking about goats.”

I looked into the vacuum of his eyes. “Why were you thinking about goats?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Elephants are too big and giraffes are too tall, and goats are about the right size to think about.”

“Drover, we’re on patrol. Stop blabbering and pay attention. Look over there.”

He squinted in the direction I was pointing. “I’ll be derned. It’s a goat.”

I stuck my nose in his face. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but that is not a goat. Look again.”

“Well . . . it’s not a giraffe.” He let out a gasp. “Oh my gosh, it’s a badger! Last one back to the porch is a rotten egg!”

I caught him just as he was about to run. “Hold your position! If you’ll notice, he’s only half-grown.”

“Yeah, but I know about badgers. They’re double-tough.”

“Drover, I’ll go through this one time, so pay attention. Point One: If you add double-tough and half-grown together, what do you get?”

“Scared?”

“No. You get zero. They cancel each other out. The guy’s a shrimp, a zero. Second, there are two of us, which means that we have exactly twice as much firepower as he has.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Third, he’s digging holes in the pasture.”

“Fine with me.”

“What?”

“I said, what a naughty badger.”

“Exactly. What we have here is a shrimpy little badger that’s digging holes without a permit, which leads us straight into Point Four: we’re fixing to put a stop to this vandalism of ranch property.” I laid a paw on his shoulder. “And we need a volunteer.”

There was a moment of silence. “You know, I’ve always dreamed of beating up a badger.”

“I like your spirit, son.”

“But this old leg’s really been giving me fits.” He limped around in a circle. “See? Terrible pain.”

“Drover, it would look very good on your resume if you beat up a badger. Nobody needs to know that he was a shrimp.”

“Yeah, but . . .” He stumbled and fell to the ground. “Drat the luck, there went the leg! Maybe you’d better take this one.”

“All right, you little faker. I’ll take the lead position, and we’ll hold you in reserve.”

“Let’s don’t hurt him. He’s just a little guy.”

“We’ll give him whatever it takes to send him on his way. Let’s move out.”

We crept forward. Up ahead, we could see the badger digging. They’re famous diggers, you know. They’ve got long claws and powerful front legs. Give a badger a couple of hours and he’ll dig up half an acre of pasture.

What are they digging for? Who knows? Probably bugs. I don’t care what kind of excuse they come up with. If they don’t have a permit to dig, they need to move along.

About ten yards away from the target, I stopped and took another look. “Abel Baker, this is Baker Charlie. The package appears to be, uh, bigger than we thought.”

“Yeah, but he’s not as big as a goat. And I bet he’ll run. They always run back to their holes.”

I gave that some thought. “Good point. Okay, I’ll give him a stern barking. In the event that he wants to fight, we’ll, uh, melt back to the porch. What do you think?”

“That’ll work.”

“All right, here I go. If I encounter any problems, I’ll call for backup. Stay alert.”

“Got it.”

The badger was so busy digging and sniffing and destroying ranch property, he never saw me coming. Good. I crept up behind him, filled my lungs with a fresh supply of air, squared my enormous shoulders, and gave him a blast of barking.

Heh heh. That woke him up. He whirled around, saw me towering over him (badgers are built low to the ground, don’t you know), and off he went, running as fast as his stubby legs would carry him—not very fast. I could have rolled him easy, but . . . well, we wanted to avoid a confrontation if at all possible. I mean, he wasn’t the biggest badger I’d ever seen, but he was still a badger.

I reached for the radio. “Hank to Drover, over. The package is moving. Let’s give pursuit and see where he goes.”

“Got it.”

This promised to be a routine assignment with no major bloodshed. I hit an easy trot and followed the culprit. I would give him a scare and a warning ticket and that would be the end of it.

He hadn’t gone more than, oh, thirty yards when he came to his hole and dived inside. I was standing over the hole when Drover came up, huffing and puffing. “Did he go in the hole?”

“That’s correct. I guess he didn’t want a piece of me.” I glanced at Drover and saw that he was wearing an odd smile. “What are you grinning about?”

“Oh, I was just thinking . . . maybe we could dig him out.”

“Dig him out? Why would we want to do that?”

He let out a giggle. “Hee hee. ’Cause there’s two of us and only one of him. ’Cause he’s a little shrimp. ’Cause it might be fun.”

I gave that some thought. “You know, you’re right, it might be fun. I mean, if he’s in the hole and we’re outside, what harm can come of it? You want to dig or should I?”

I was shocked when he said, “Oh, I’ll do it. I’m feeling kind of wild.” He puffed himself up and took a step toward the hole . . . and let out a groan. “Uh-oh, there’s that leg again. Maybe I’d better give it some rest.”

“Drover, one of these days I’m going to get suspicious about your leg. Get out of the way.” I pushed him aside and stepped up to the hole.

“No, this time it’s real pain, and it’s really painful.”

“Please hush, I’m trying to concentrate.”

I started digging, and we’re talking about dirt flying in all directions. Hey, this was fun! After moving several cubic yards of dirt, I stuck my nose into the hole and delivered a blast of barking. “This is Ranch Security, so listen up! The next time you want to tear up ranch property . . .”

Huh?