Читать книгу Every Dog Has His Day - John R. Erickson - Страница 7

Chapter Two: A Working Hippopotamus Takes Shape

Oh, he got a big chuckle out of it, Slim did, just laughed and howled and held his sides and fell on the ground. I didn’t think it was so funny myself.

“Did you think I was going to get you, Hankie? You’d better be more careful what you bark at.” He went back into the saddle shed, chuckling to himself. It’s always a little shocking to realize how childish these cowboys can be.

Well, it took me a whole minute to get the hair to lay back down on my neck, and then I looked around for Drover. He had disappeared. I went looking for him, figgered he might have high-balled it up to the machine shed, but I found him hiding behind one of them big Chinese elms just east of the garden. I could see his eyes peeking around the trunk.

“You can come out now, Drover.”

“What was that thing?”

“Just Slim, trying to be funny.”

“Oh. Sure didn’t look like Slim to me.”

“First impressions are often wrong, Drover. You must learn to probe deeper and look for the forest instead of the trees.”

Drover stared at me and twisted his head. “I thought you said it was Slim.”

“I did say it was Slim.”

“Oh. I thought that’s what you said, but then you said he was a tree.”

“No, you weren’t paying attention. How could Slim be a tree?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think he looked much like a tree. He didn’t have enough bark.”

“He didn’t bark at all, Drover. WE barked at HIM.”

“Yeah, I know, but he didn’t have enough bark to be a tree.”

“Of course he didn’t, you dunce, because trees don’t bark! Now stop wasting my time and . . .” All at once I heard a pickup coming down the road from the mailbox. “Wait a minute, what is this?”

Drover looked up. “I think it’s a tree.”

“What? No, coming down the road.”

“Oh. Gosh, it looks like a pickup to me.”

“Indeed it is a pickup, pulling a green stock trailer. The question is, what is it doing on my ranch?”

“Beats me, but I wonder what it’s doing here?”

“Good question, Drover, and we’re fixing to find some answers. Come on!”

We went streaking toward the unidentified pickup and barked it all the way down to the corrals. Just as I was about to sniff out the tires and mark them for future reference, another pickup came rolling in. And another!

I called to Drover and we went rushing out to meet the trespassers, gave each one of them as much of a barking as we could manage under the circumstances. Something very strange was going on here, and I needed to find out what it was.

I picked up some clues right away. All three of the pickups were pulling stock trailers. All three stock trailers had four wheels. Two were green and one was brown—no pattern there, but I noticed it anyway. And finally, inside each of the trailers was a horse—not the same horse, you see, but three different horses—and all three horses were saddled.

The drivers got out and two of them stretched their arms. I recognized two out of the three suspects. One was named Baxter, the other was Billy. Both lived on ranches down the creek, which meant they were neighbors. I didn’t recognize the third man.

Oh, and they were all wearing spurs and chaps. That was kind of revealing too. When the neighbors come prowling around in shurs and spaps, spurs and chaps, that is, it usually indicates that some type of work is planned for the day.

I called my assistant over for a conference. “Drover, circulate around, sniff things out, keep your ears open. Something’s going on around here.”

“I thought so.”

I glared at the runt. “Maybe you thought so, but I thought so first. Don’t forget who’s in charge around here.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Now get going. I’ll expect a full report.”

“Okay, Hankie, here I go!” And off he went.

I had my doubts that he would turn up any good leads, but when you’re short-handed, you have to use whatever warm bodies happen to be available. Drover was what you would call your Basic Warm Body.

I slipped around the pickups and trailers and checked things out, marked a few tires, kept my eyes and ears open, continued gathering data and amassing clues. When High Loper came down from the house, wearing his summer leggins and big-rowel spurs, I had enough evidence to come up with a Working Hypothenus . . .

Hypotenuse. Hypodermicus. Hyrolysis. What is the dadgummed word? Hippopotamus.

. . . I had turned up enough evidence to form a Working Hippopotamus: Without consulting me, the cowboys had decided to roundup and brand one of the pastures. Furthermore, they had invited strangers to come onto the ranch to help, with the work—again, without consulting me.

Well, this discovery really burned me up. I mean, running a ranch is hard enough under the best of circumstances, but when your own people start slipping around and making plans behind your back, it’s really tough. But never mind, that’s just part of the job.

I was in the process of sniffing tires and sifting clues when I heard a voice coming from the pickup above me: “Well, hello there, big boy. Imagine meeting you here!”

I froze. Hadn’t I heard that sultry voice before? Hadn’t I experienced that sudden increase in heart rate and blood pressure that I now felt? The an­swer was yes, I had, and it had been caused by a certain gorgeous beagle dog named Miss Scamper.

I lifted my eyes and saw her head protruding over the side of the pickup bed. Description: lovely brown eyes with big lashes, long beagle ears, a freckled nose, a very exciting pair of jowls.

Even though my deepest heart of hearts belonged to my one and only true love, Miss Beulah the Collie . . . MERCY! Furthermore, the last time Beulah and I had met, she had snubbed me for a worthless, stick-tailed, spotted bird dog named Plato, and I hadn’t forgotten that snub or quite forgiven her for choosing a bird dog over a cowdog, and . . . MERCY!

“Well, blow me down,” I said, “I believe I’ve just stumbled upon one of the seven wonders of the world.”

“You could be right, but I didn’t know there were six others.”

“I may have miscounted, Miss Scamper. What’s a nice place like you doing in a dog like this?”

“I just came along for the ride, thought I might, ah, see some different scenery.”

“Well, I don’t know how the scenery looks to you, ma’am, but from down here, it’s just pretty awesome.”

“This must be your lucky day.”

“Indeed it is, Miss Scamper, which brings to mind a poem:

Roses are red, the gas tanks are gray

Holy tamales, it’s my lucky day!”

She winked. “Not bad, for a big old hunk of dog like you.”

“Would you like to hear another one?”

“Oooo! I’m not sure I can stand it, but let’s give it a try.”

“All right. Hang on, here we go:

Roses are red but your face is incredible

I’d gobble you up if I thought you were edible.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m so impressed with your poetry!”

“Hey, that’s only the beginning. Can you stand another one?”

“Just one more. I’ll try not to faint.”

“Fair enough. Here we go:

Roses will readily stab you with thorns

But this ache in my heart ain’t caused by a rosebush.”

The smile faded from her lips. “I think you missed on that one, big boy. It didn’t exactly rhyme.”

“Well, no, but that was a modern poem. They’re not supposed to rhyme.”

“I see. You just have an answer to every little question, don’t you?”

“Yes ma’am. I not only have answers to every little question, but I have answers to several big ones. Furthermore, I have answers to questions that haven’t even been asked yet.”

“How interesting!”

“And speaking of questions, what do you have planned for the next thirty years?”

I gave her a wink and she gave me one back. “I’ll, ah, have to look at my calendar and . . . ooooo, what have we here!”

Her eyes seemed to be looking past me. I turned my head and found myself peering into the face of a dog I had never seen before, didn’t know, and didn’t particularly want to know.

Description: black and white, long hair, long nose, medium height and build, pretty good conformation. In some ways, he resembled your border collie, a breed of dogs known for their ability to herd sheep.

On closer inspection, I began to suspect that he not only bore some faint resemblance to the border collie, but that he was a border collie, possibly one with papers and hot-rod breeding.

How could I have known all that in such a short span of time? Good question. The answer lies in my remarkable powers of concentration and a certain sixth sense I have about bloodlines. I mean, I can just by George look at a dog and pretty muchly tell you where he came from.

This one not only had the markings of a low-class sheepdog, but he also grinned all the time. Always grinning, that’s the border collie. It comes from the fact that they go around with their mouths open and their tongues hanging off to one side. (Try that yourself and see if it doesn’t make you grin.)

Let me pause here to point out that I’ve never had much use for dogs that fool with sheep, nor have I ever trusted a dog that went around grinning all the time, and furthermore, I didn’t care for the way Miss Scamper was making eyes at this one.

I had a feeling that me and this sheep-herder weren’t going to become bosom pals any time soon.