Читать книгу The Fling - John R. Erickson - Страница 7

Chapter Two: Drover Wants to Be a Truck

Nothing happened. Honest.

You thought I heard a voice? Someone calling my name? It was just the, uh, call of a bird. A quail down along the creek. They chirp and twitter, you know, and make a whistling noise: “Bob-white! Bob-white!”

Who or whom is Bob White? We don’t know that, and since it involves birds, we really don’t care. The point is that your bobwhite quails make that sound, and it sounded a whole lot like “Hank.” No kidding. And so the voice we heard . . .

Okay, might as well admit it. It wasn’t a quail calling. It was Loper and Slim, the cowboys on this outfit, and the deal was . . .

Had anyone notified ME that they would be rounding up the home pasture first thing in the morning, or shipping steers or driving them right through my office? I mean, I’m Head of Ranch Security. It’s my job to schedule things and direct traffic and make sure . . .

How did they expect me to run the ranch when they planned these events without consulting me? One minute I’m catching a few moments of precious sleep, and the next thing I know, I’ve got a herd of cows running through my office.

Steers, actually. They were steers, not cows. Your cows are adult females who deliver baby calves, while your steers are grown calves who are ready to go to market. But the crucial detail here is that nobody bothered to inform me.

Well, I was outraged. I was furious. I had come within a gnat’s eyebrow of making a complete and utter fool of myself. I mean, they were trying to pen those steers in the corral, and I was chasing them back into the pasture, so naturally . . .

They were pretty mad, the cowboys were. I can’t say as I blamed ’em for being mad, but by George, it was their own fault. And after Loper had chased me up to the machine shed—and I mean he was swinging his rope and yelling and everything—after he’d chased me away from the scene of their foolish follyrot, I stuck my head out of the machine shed doors and beamed Loper and Slim Glares of Righteous Anger.

Next time, maybe they would go through the proper channels and do it right.

Well, I was in the midst of beaming microwaves of Righteous Anger at our crew of rookie cowboys, when all at once I felt that I was being watched. I turned my head and saw . . . Drover.

“Don’t stare at me. I’m transmitting a very important message to the careless and misguided people who caused this mess.”

“Boy, it sure looks like a wreck. Did you do all that yourself?”

“No, I did not. This is the result of poor planning and sloppy management. I had nothing to do with it.”

“I’ll be derned. I thought you made ’em stampede.”

“That conclusion is based on gossip and faulty information, Drover.”

“Yeah, that was pretty brave. I couldn’t have done it myself. I’m scared of cows.”

“They were steers.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I can’t believe you went after ’em like that. What a hero.”

Hero? I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my gaze. His eyes were shining with . . . well, adoration and admiration. “Well, Drover, if you must know, I had the choice of running away or making a stand.”

“Yeah, and you stood up for what was right. What a guy!”

“Well, I . . . how can I say this without seeming to brag?” I began pacing back and forth in front of him, as I often do when my mind is plunged into deepest thought. “It was a clear case, Drover. The steers had made a forced entry into the office. They were trespassing. They had no right to be there.”

“So you did run ’em off?”

I paused for a moment and turned my gaze skyward. “Yes, you’re right. I didn’t want to boast about it. You know how I feel about roasting and bagging . . . bagging and broasting . . . bragging and . . . it just isn’t, well, my nature to thump my own tub, as they say, but . . . yes. I had to do what was right. I gave them fair warning, and when they didn’t leave, I thrashed them.”

“Gosh, I wish I could do things like that.”

“It comes with practice, son.”

He sighed. “I think it’ll take more than practice for me.”

I studied the runt for a moment. “Yes, I see your point. Fear seems to be a problem for you.”

“Yeah, and I’m especially scared of cows.”

“Those were steers, Drover, not cows.”

“Yeah, but they all look the same to me, and they all scare me.”

“Drover, what you need . . .” At that very moment, my lecture was cut short by a loud roaring sound. My ears shot up. “Holy smokes, what’s that?”

Drover dived back into the machine shed. “I don’t know, but it’s loud, and loud noises scare me.”

“Drover, the problem with you is . . .” I ventured a few steps away from the door and peered off to the east. I saw the source of the loud noise and returned to the shed. “You can come out, Drover, it’s only a truck.”

I heard his voice coming from the far corner of the shed. “Are you sure? What kind of truck?”

“It’s a . . . how should I know what kind of truck? The truck part is bright red, and it’s pulling a huge trailer that’s silver.”

“I’ll be derned. It must be a cattle truck.”

“Ha. I don’t think so. No, Slim and Loper would never . . .” I studied the truck again. “It’s a cattle truck, Drover, and do you see what this means?”

“Yeah. It’s loud, and I can’t stand loud noises in the morning.”

“No, that’s not what it means at all. It means that Slim and Loper ordered a cattle truck without consulting me! The guy just shows up, blaring his motor and leaving tracks on my road, and nobody bothered to tell me. This is an outroge, Draver, and something must be done about it.”

“Well, I’m kind of busy right now. And my name’s Drover.”

“Get yourself out here, and that’s an order. Hurry. And by the way, I know your name.” He dragged himself out of the depths of the shed and appeared at the door. “What’s wrong with you? You look sick.”

“No, I’m scared of red trucks.”

“See? Just as I suspected. That’s an irrational fear, Drover. Why should you be any more afraid of red trucks than green trucks?”

“I’m scared of green ones too.”

“Have you ever seen a green cattle truck?”

“Well . . . not really.”

“My point exactly. If you’ve never seen a green truck, then how do you know that you’re scared of them? You see, green is merely a color, and it’s totally irrational to be afraid of a mere color.”

“Yeah, but I’m scared of big trucks, ’cause they roar and belch black smoke.”

“Belching is impolite, Drover, but it’s nothing to fear. I’ve heard you belch before. Were you frightened by your own belching?”

“No, but I don’t belch black smoke. And I’m not a truck.”

I glared at the runt. “Drover, I’m aware that you’re not a truck. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“I’ve wondered.”

“What?”

“I said . . . I’m not a truck.”

“Of course you’re not a truck. If you were a truck, you wouldn’t be a dog, but what’s wrong with being a dog? Why, all of a sudden, do you want to be a truck?”

“Well, I guess . . . boy, I sure get confused.”

“Exactly my point. You’re confused, Drover. Any dog who dreams of being a truck is badly confused. We need to . . .” I stopped in midsentence and walked a few steps away. “I seem to have lost the thread of this conversation. What were we discussing?”

“Well, you said I couldn’t be a truck. But I already knew that, and besides, I never wanted to be a truck. I’m happy just being a dog.”

I walked back over to him and looked into his eyes. “Do you really mean that? If it’s true, Drover, then this conversation has had a huge impact on your life. If you feel that you can find happiness and meaning in your dogness, then this has been time well spent.” His eyes crossed. “Don’t cross your eyes while I’m talking to you about the meaning of life.”

“Okay, sorry.”

“Now, tell me the truth. Do you think you can go on with your life, even though you’re not a truck?”

“I guess so.”

“Great!” I whopped him on the back. “We’ve managed to pull you back from the edge of the brink. Now, I observe that there’s an unidentified cattle truck on this ranch. Let’s march down there and give him the barking he so richly deserves. Are you ready for this?”

“I’m still a bit confused.”

“Get used to it, son. Some of us are born confused and some of us get that way through hard work. Now, let’s move out. For this maneuver, we’ll go to Turbo Four.”

“I don’t have a two-by-four.”

“In that case, follow me and study your lessons. We’re going to show this guy what happens when cattle trucks show up on our ranch without permission. Let’s go!”

And with that, we taxied out of the machine shed. After a brief takeoff sequence, I rammed the throttle down and went straight into Turbo Four. Trees, rocks, and other objects flew past. Halfway down the hill, I saw trouble looming up—a bunch of chickens.

I barked a warning.

“Out of the way, you fools!”

I had to alter my course just a bit to run through the middle of them, but I got ’er done and bulldozed ’em. What fun! What joy! Their squawking and flapping brought a rush of new meaning into my life, and once again I understood why no ranch dog should ever wish to be a truck.

That’s kind of weird, isn’t it, Drover wishing he could be a truck? Oh well. He’s weird. I’ve said it many times.

And so it was that Drover and I intercepted the trespassing truck just as it was turning around and getting ready to back up to the loading chute. I roared up beside the cab and began laying down a withering barrage of barking. Drover joined me and added a yip or two.

“Halt! Stop that thing and park it, buddy. We need to see some paperwork before you back up to our loading chute.”

The driver stared at me. Description: small guy, young, big black cowboy hat pushed down on his ears, glasses that made him look like a dragon­fly, and a stringy little mustache that I would have been ashamed to wear out in public.

He stared at me and kept backing up.

“Okay, pal, we tried it the easy way. Get out of that truck or we’re fixing to disable it.”

He ignored me. How foolish of him.

That left me with little choice. I rushed to the left front wheel and was just about to rip it to shreds with my enormous jaws, when . . .

HUH?