Читать книгу The Case of the Booby-Trapped Pickup - John R. Erickson - Страница 6

Chapter One: A Hairy Witch Invades the Ranch

It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. A coyote that came into the feed ground and ate with the cows? Ridiculous. Impossible. I didn’t believe one word of Slim’s story until . . . well, until I saw that coyote with my own eyes and she turned out to be a gorgeous princess who fell madly in love with me.

But that comes later in the story. Forget I mentioned it.

Where were we? Oh yes, the mystery began in the wintertime, as I recall, the first part of winter, maybe late November, because I had recently switched the ranch over to our Winter Routine.

Have we discussed the WR? Maybe not. The Winter Routine is the routine we follow in the winter, and that’s why we call it . . . maybe this is obvious, but it’s not so obvious what we do in the Winter Routine. Are you ready to hear this? Pay attention.

First thing, we send all the summer birds packing, your sparrows, larks, cardinals, robins, tweeties, and so-forth birds. Sometime in September or October, we give ’em the order to move out and fly south. Why? Because after putting up with them all summer, I’m ready to clean house and get ’em off the ranch.

I mean, you talk about noisy! Around here, a dog can hardly sleep in the summertime for all the noise. They tweet, twitter, squeak, squawk, chirp, and chatter from sunup to sundown, and some of ’em don’t quit at sundown. They tweet and twitter half the night. Annoying? You bet.

Another thing that annoys me is that they nest in ranch trees without permission. If they showed some respect and asked my permission, I’d probably give it. I mean, birds have to do something. They don’t have honest jobs, so they need a place to loiter and do their little nothings. But they don’t ask permission. They just move in, take over ranch trees, and start making noise. That really burns me up.

On your average summer day, I have to spend an hour and fifteen minutes barking at the little dummies and trying to restore law and order. The Head of Ranch Security shouldn’t have to get involved with such silliness, but if I didn’t do it, who would? Barking at birds would make a nice little summer job for Drover, but he can’t be trusted. His mind wanders, you know.

But the point is that by the middle of September, I’m sick of birds and I give ’em the order to shove off. You know what? It works every time. Those birds pack up their feathers and head south in droves, and we don’t see ’em again until the following spring. Pretty impressive, huh? You bet. Those birds don’t want to mess with the Head of Ranch Security.

The other part of the Winter Routine comes when I issue a directive to ranch employees: “Attention please! The Security Division has been monitoring the nutritional needs of our cattle, and as of yesterday afternoon, the protein level of our pasture grass dropped below the minimum. Therefore, tomorrow morning all cowboys will initiate our Winter Feeding Program and will continue feeding until I issue another directive next spring. Any employees who don’t understand this directive, or who don’t agree with it, are invited to follow orders and keep their traps shut.”

Are you surprised that a dog would be so deeply involved in the ranch’s Winter Feeding Program? Most of your ordinary ranch mutts don’t, but me . . . well, as I always say, no task is too small to be little.

No task is too small to be big.

No task is too big to belittle.

No task is too . . . there’s a neat old saying that captures what I’m trying to say here, but at the moment . . . just skip it.

Where were we? Oh yes, winter had come to the ranch and I had put our Winter Routine into action, which meant that we were . . . well, ready for winter. We had swept out another crop of pesky little tweet-tweets and I had ordered the cowboy crew back to work, feeding cattle every day. I knew they hated that, I mean, they had spent most of the summer tacking up fence and tearing up equipment in the alfalfa patch, goofing off and playing so-called practical jokes on us dogs, and now they had to load up sacks of feed every morning and actually do some work on the ranch.

I heard them grumbling and complaining, but it didn’t soften my heart one bit. By George, I had sent down my orders and that was the end of it.

Well, almost. On the morning of November 28, the very first day of winter feeding, a problem developed, a problem so serious that even I hadn’t antipisated it. At 8:07 that morning . . . anticipated . . . at 9:07 that morning, Slim’s old pickup quit working. It died right in front of the machine shed, and we’re talking about graveyard dead.

Fortunately, I was on duty and ready to swing into action. Whilst Slim raised the hood and went through his usual checklist (scratching his head, scowling at the motor, wiggling two wires, and calling the pickup a piece of junk), I reached for the microphone of my mind and put out a call to the Elite Troops of the Security Division.

“Hank to Drover, over. Report to the machine shed at once. We’ve got a mechanical failure up here, and Slim’s in over his head, over. Do you copy?”

I waited and listened. Not a sound, except for static on the radio. Where was he? Every time I really needed the little goof, he was . . . but then I heard the shuffle of his feet on the gravel, and he came dragging around the northeast corner of the machine shed. Was he running or showing any indication that this was an urgent matter? No. He was taking his sweet time, wearing a silly grin and gazing around at the scenery.

He walked into the icy beam of my hot glare and stopped. “Oh, hi. Were you barking for me?”

“I called you, yes. You may have thought I was merely barking, but it was actually a downlink microwave transmission from one of the Security Division’s communication satellites.”

“I’ll be derned. It sure sounded like a bark to me.”

“It was more than a bark, but never mind. Did you get my urgent message?”

“Well, let me think here.” He rolled his eyes around. “I think you said that Slim was . . . standing on his head?”

The air hissed out of my lungs. “That wasn’t the message. I said that Slim was in over his head. His pickup quit on him and he needs backup right away.”

“His pickup won’t back up?”

“Affirmative. It won’t back up and it won’t go forward either. It’s broken and he needs a backup from us.”

“You mean . . . we have to pull it backward?”

I stuck my nose in his face. “Drover, listen to me. The pickup won’t start and Slim is a lousy mechanic. He needs our help. Do you understand?”

“Well . . . I’m not sure. How come he’s standing on his head?”

“He’s not standing on his head! Look at him. Is he standing on his head?”

You won’t believe this part. Just as Drover swung his gaze around, Slim bent down and looked underneath the pickup, so that his head almost touched the ground. Drover flashed a grin. “Oh, I see now. He’s standing on his head, trying to figure out how come the pickup won’t back up, only he’s not really standing on his head. Did I get it right?”

What can you say? “Yes. Fine. Very good. Now, let’s march over there and see if we can lend a hand.”

“What if we don’t have any hands?”

I froze. “What?”

“If all you’ve got is paws, how can you lend a hand?”

“Drover, are you trying to be funny?”

“I don’t think so. All I’ve got is four paws, honest. See?” He proceeded to show me his paws.

“Then don’t lend a hand. Lend a paw. Let’s go. We’re wasting valuable time here.” I shoved my way past him and started toward Slim.

“Which paw?”

Again, I had to stop. “What did you say?”

“When?”

“Just now.”

He rolled his eyes around. “Well, let me think. I said that Slim was standing on his head.”

“No, after that.”

“Well, I said . . . I already forgot.”

I could feel my temper rising. “You said . . . you said something about a witch.”

“I did?”

“Yes, you certainly did, and don’t try to deny it. Now, why were you inquiring about witches?”

His eyes blanked out. “I don’t know, but Halloween’s already past.”

“That’s correct. Are you saying that we still have a Halloween witch running around on the ranch?”

“Well . . .”

“Because, if you are”—I began pacing in front of him—“this could lead our investigation into an entirely new direction.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Where did you see this witch? Around headquarters?”

“No, all I said was, which paw?”

I froze in my tracks. “Witch paw? She had paws? Holy smokes, Drover, why didn’t you report this sooner?”

“No, I said . . .”

“A witch with paws! This could turn out to be very interesting.” I resumed my pacing. “Okay, let’s follow up on this. Describe the paws.”

He held up a foot and squinted at it. “Well, let’s see. Four toes and dirty nails, and hair between the toes.”

“Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere. This was a hairy witch, the most dangerous kind. Was she riding a broom? Carrying a pumpkin? Did she have a black cat?” I noticed that the runt had collapsed to the ground and covered his ears with his paws. I marched over to him. “Now what? I’m trying to work up this case, Drover, but I must have your cooperation. Was she riding a broom?”

“Who?”

“The witch, of course.”

He let out a moan. “I didn’t see a witch! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“You . . . you didn’t see a hairy witch with paws?”

“No!”

There was a long moment of silence. “Drover, if you didn’t see a witch, then what is the point of this conversation?”

“I don’t know. I’m so confused, I want to go back to bed.”

“I see.” I took a slow breath of air. “In that case . . . Drover, what were we doing before you dragged us into a ridiculous conversation about witches?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Hmmm. Neither do I.” I sat down and began scratching my right ear. A moment later, I heard Slim scream, “Piece of junk!” And it all came rushing back. I leaped to my feet and called Drover to action, and we sprinted over to help Slim in his hour of greatest need.