Читать книгу The Case of the Haystack Kitties - John R. Erickson - Страница 7

Chapter Two: Mocked by the Small Minds on the Ranch

I saw Loper and Slim. They had come down from the house and were leaning on the legs of the gas tank. And the alarming sound I had heard was their laughter.

They appeared to be laughing at . . . something. I ran my gaze around in a full circle and saw nothing that might cause them such a fit of laughing. Then I heard them speak.

Slim: “Say, that’s a pretty special dog you’ve got there. You reckon he’s a registered hunter and jumper?”

Loper: “You bet. He hunts down cottonwood seeds and jumps to catch ’em. Sure makes me proud of my dog food bill.”

Slim: “Why, yes. You know, Loper, them cotton farmers down around Lubbock might pay big money for a dog like Hank. If you staked him out for twenty-four hours, I’ll bet he might gather a whole bale of cotton.”

Loper: “He sure might. Maybe I ought to get a patent on him.”

Slim: “Boy, I would. Paint him green and put a John Deere sticker on him, and you might be able to rent him out by the month.”

You can always spot the small minds in a crowd. They’re the ones that laugh and hoot and ridicule anyone who’s different, anyone who dares to exper­iment and push the outer limits of our scientific knowledge. And if history had been left to such hooters and scoffers, we’d still be . . . I don’t know where we’d still be.

Yes I do. We’d still be living in a primitive state, without baling wire and zippers for blue jeans and better mousetraps. We’d have mice all over the place, eating up the world’s supply of cheese, and those two jugheads would still be making jokes.

They think they’re so funny. Well, they’re not. If they didn’t laugh at their own stale jokes, there would be a great silence every time they told one.

I held my head at a proud angle and gave them Poisonous Glares, just to let them know that all the great discoveries in science looked silly at first. My Poisonous Glares must have gotten to them—either that or they got so bored listening to each other, they couldn’t stand it anymore—but whatever, at last they ran out of excuses for loitering and loafing.

Loper yawned and stretched. “Slim, why don’t you load up some alfalfa on the flatbed and feed those momma cows in the Dutcher Creek pasture. They’re chasing that early grass in the low spots, but they probably need a little extra protein. Feed the horse pasture and those yearlings in the southeast. Forty bales ought to be plenty.”

Slim nodded. “Do I dare take the Cotton King with me?”

“Oh, I guess we can spare him, but be real care­ful. With this cattle market in the pits, we may need to branch out into the cotton business.”

“I’ll guard him with my life.”

See? What did I tell you? They never quit. Well, if Slim thought I was going to help him feed hay, he was very muchly mistaken. I had better things to do—plenty of better things.

“Hank, come on! Load up.”

No. I would not come on, and I would not load up.

Loper went down to the corrals or somewhere. I don’t know where he went, nor did I care. Slim came walking toward me. I turned my eyes away and refused to look at him.

“Now Hankie, we were just funnin’. Don’t be bitter.”

Hey, I was bitter. Who wouldn’t have been bitter? I had nothing more to say to Slim Chance, except that he wasn’t nearly as funny as he thought. No, I would not come, and I intended to ignore him for days, maybe even weeks.

Dogs have feelings too. We can’t be mocked and scorned day after day.

“Come on, Hankie. Let’s go load some hay.”

No. He could load his own hay, and he could do it alone, and after he’d spent a few weeks alone, without a loyal friend, maybe he’d learn to appreciate a good honest cowdog.

The Cotton King! I’d never been so insulted. If they had bothered to study the case, they would have known that the real so-called Cotton King on our outfit was Mister Squeakbox, who had invented the whole silly exercise.

I’d just been trying to help the little goof.

I should have known better. Helping Drover was Mission Impossible.

And no, I would not help Slim feed today, and maybe never again. My decision was final.

Slim shrugged and made his way to the flat­­­bed pickup in that slow walk of his. My glare followed him. It was a pity to end such a long friendship, but it couldn’t be helped. He opened the door and reached inside. He came out with something in his hand. He took a bite of it and held it up.

“You want some beef jerky?”

My ears shot up and puddles of water began to form in my mouth. Well, I . . . I sure didn’t want him thinking that all my anger and hurt and pain could be bought for one measly strip of beef jerky, but on the other hand . . . I, uh, found my steps taking me toward the pickup.

Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t selling out one hundred percent. The pain and humilification would linger for weeks, and I would find it hard to hide the scars, but . . . well, beef jerky was a pretty good peace offering.

He tore off a hunk and pitched it into the air. You should have seen me snap that rascal! Snagged it out of thin air and gulped it down.

Old Slim chuckled at that. “Beats cotton, don’t it?”

There for a moment I considered . . . oh well. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but beef will ease the pain. Someone on the ranch needed to show some maturity, and I figured it had to be me.

“You want to ride in the back or up front with the executives?”

Well, I had always enjoyed riding in the back and letting the wind blow my ears around, but . . . well, considering all the suffering I had endured that morning, maybe riding up front would be better. I leaped up onto the seat and took the Shot­gun Position by the window.

Much to my surprise and dismay, Slim called Drover, and a moment later he joined me in the cab. I gave him a withering glare.

“Hi, Hank. Is something wrong?”

“Don’t speak to me, you weasel. Of course some­thing’s wrong.”

“Gosh, if I can’t speak to you, how can I find out what’s wrong?”

“You know what it is, and you were the cause of it. Once again, you have made a mockery of the entire Security Division.”

“I thought we’d become famous scientists or something.”

“We became famous idiots, Drover, and do you know why?”

“Not really.”

“Because you told me a huge whopper of a lie and lured me into believing that story about cotton­­wood candy.”

He grinned. “Oh yeah. That was quite a whopper, but I knew you’d never believe it.”

“Yes, but I did believe it. I made the mistake of trusting you.”

“That was a mistake.”

“I just said that, and we don’t need you repeating everything I say.”

“What?”

“I said, we don’t need me repeating everything you say.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“And for telling huge whoppers to the Head of Ranch Security, you will be written up. I’m going to put three Shame-on-You’s into your file.”

“Oh drat.”

“Make that four, Drover, since you’ve chosen to use naughty language while on duty. I hope this ruins your day and makes you feel lousy.”

He grinned. “Yeah, it does.”

“Then why are you grinning?”

“Well, let me think here.” He rolled his eyes around. “I deserved it so much, the guilt feels good and makes me grin.”

“Drover, that’s the dumbest statement you’ve ever made.”

“No, I said something dumber last week.”

“What was it?”

“Well, it was so dumb, I tried to forget it, and now I can’t remember.”

“Shut up, Drover. Talking with you makes me feel insane.”

I turned my gaze out the window and moved as far away from him as I could. Just sitting next to him scrambled my brain waves.

Slim fired up the motor, and we drove around to the stack lot, and in case you don’t know, a stack lot is where we keep our stacks of alfalfa hay over the winter months. It’s fenced off to keep the livestock . . .

Uh-oh. I saw the problem right away, even before Slim did. A bull had torn down the fence and had invaded the stack lot. No doubt he had been there most of the night, and he had wrecked the southwest corner of the stack.

Slim saw it too, and his eyes narrowed in anger. “Dadgum bull. Come on, Hank. We’ve got a job to do.”

He flew out the door and opened the wire gate into the stack lot. I tried to follow him out the pickup door, but Drover was in my way. “Excuse me, but I’ve just been called out on a Code Three.” He stared at me with empty eyes. “Will you please get out of my way?”

“When?”

“When what?”

“When did somebody get in your way?”

“You’re in my way right now!”

“Oh my gosh, did something happen?”

“Yes, something happened. We’re in a Code Three Situation. We’re under Red Alert, and you’re in my way, and I can’t get out. Move!”

He moved, all right. He started turning circles right there in the seat. “Help, mayday, Red Alert, oh my leg!”

“Stop squeaking and spinning in circles! Jump out the door and attack that bull!”

“Bull? Oh my gosh, okay, here we go, out the door . . .”

At last he jumped out the door, but would you like to guess what he did the very instant his feet hit the ground? Instead of charging after the bull, he ducked under the pickup and hid. I couldn’t believe it. I was so disgusted . . . oh well. I didn’t have time to deal with Drover’s problems.

I flew out the door and went ripping into the stack lot to give that smart-aleck bull a stiff dose of Ranch Justice. I’d never liked bulls in the first place, and I could hardly wait to tear this guy to shreds.