Let Sleeping Dogs Lie Read online

  “Exactly! Our clues are falling into place. Fol­low them to the logical answer.”

  “Okay. The answer is . . . yes.”

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t it have to be one or the other?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “In most instances, a simple yes or no will do, but in this particular case the answer is more complicated, for you see, Drover, we have stumbled into a garden.”

  “Isn’t that what I said a while ago?”

  “You were close, very close considering your limited, uh, gifts. You did in fact suggest that we had stumbled into the garden by mistake.”

  “I thought that’s what I said.”

  “But what you didn’t take into account, Drover, was that the entire garden had been moved fifteen degrees to the south!”

  “No fooling?”

  “Yes. We have walked into a trap.”

  “Oh.”

  “The purpose of which was to keep us from sounding the alarm. But what they didn’t take into account was our superior barking ability.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Exactly. We may be cut off from the house, Drover, but we can still sound the alarm. On the count of three, we’ll commence barking. One! And I want you to put your heart and soul into it. Two! Just by George bark as you’ve never barked in all your life. Three!”

  “Now?”

  “Let ’er rip!”

  Fellers, we leaned into the task and did some heavy-duty barking. Drover did his usual “yip-yip-yip, pause, yip-yip-yip, pause, yip-yip-yip, etc.” And on each yip, all four of his feet left the ground. Funny how he does that.

  I added my deep masculine roar, the same brand of barking that has struck terror in the hearts of monsters, coyotes, coons, badgers, skunks, rattlesnakes, and cats—not to mention cattle, which are my specialty.

  Loper wasn’t what you would call swift in responding to our call. It took us a good fifteen minutes of solid barking to get a light on in the house. At last we heard his voice:

  “SHUT UP, YOU IDIOTS!!”

  We kept it up, just barked our hearts out. Suddenly we saw a flash of light, followed by a boom and a sprinkling of buckshot in the trees.

  Drover stopped barking. “Is he shooting at us?”

  I gave him a withering glare. “How dumb do you think he is? He must have seen one of the fiends. Keep barking and maybe we can get him down here.”

  We sent up another salvo of high explosive barking. Before long, I saw the beam of a flashlight and heard the yard gate slam. At last we were getting somewhere.

  “Keep it up, Drover. We want to give him our coordinates. Otherwise, he’ll never hear us with all this thunder.”

  We kept up a steady barrage. The flashlight came closer, then pieces of Loper began to take shape in the darkness: cowboy boots, skinny white legs, striped boxer shorts, white belly, hairy chest, angry face, cowboy hat, shotgun.

  He hadn’t bothered to dress up, but that was okay. What mattered was that he was there with his gun.

  He leaned on the fence and threw his light around the garden. It revealed a, shall we say, dismal scene of tomato plants, radishes, lettuce, turnips, and other young vegetables tromped flat on the ground by unknown forces.

  Then I heard Loper’s voice. “Holy smokes, my wife is gonna kill somebody! The coons must have . . .”

  The light hit me, punched me right in the retinas, kind of hurt. I squinted but held my head up high and gave my tail such a big sweeping wag that I got a piece of tomato plant caught in them long hairs out near the end, had to reach back and pull it off with my teeth.

  It was still hanging from my mouth when I heard Loper say, “Oh no, I don’t believe this. Hank, you idiot, you nincompoop, you moron!”

  HUH? I glanced at Drover. He had disappeared.

  “You pea-brained, manure-headed, sewer-dipping, ignert, garden-destroying, barking-all-night, sorry excuse for a cowdog, GET YOUR TAIL OUT OF SALLY MAY’S GARDEN!!!!”

  What . . . how . . . but I . . . now hold on . . .

  I heard him pump a shell into the chamber and figgered the time had come for me to sell out, never mind the explanations. I made a dive out of the flashlight beam and took aim for the feed barn.

  Just then the rain hit, and I’m talking about hard rain, fellers, big drops and plenty of them, buckets of water, raining down snakes and weasels and pitchforks. I made it to the feed barn just in time, slithered through that place at the bottom where the door’s warped, and crawled inside.

  In other words, I escaped serious wetting by a matter of seconds.

  That’s the good part of the story. The unfortunate part is that Loper and his shotgun, shall we say, didn’t escape serious wetting.

  They got drenched, soaked. But that wasn’t my fault.

  Chapter Three: Another Triumph over Pete

  Drover showed up around 8:00 the next morning. By that time I’d already been up for a couple of hours, going over the scene of last night’s investigation—in heavy mud, I might add. Mud has never yet scared me off a case.

  I caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye, padding down the hill from the machine shed, where, no doubt, he had spent a dry comfortable night curled up in the northwest corner beside Loper’s canoe, while I had tossed and turned and dreamed about the unsolved murder.

  He came skipping down the hill with his eyes going back and forth to the trees, the clouds, the butterflies, and other silly things. I mean, you would have thought the little runt didn’t have a care in the world. And maybe he didn’t. That seems to be one advantage of below-average intelligence.

  But I had plenty of cares in the world—namely last night’s wreck in the garden, which I had just about solved, and a murder case, which I just about hadn’t solved.

  I had been studying The Case of the Moving Garden since daylight, and it was very much on my mind when Mister Look-at-the-Butterflies finally put in his appearance.

  “Hi, Hank. Sure is a pretty day.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion. Get over here. I’ve got things to discuss with you.”

  “Oh good.”

  “You won’t think ‘oh good’ when you hear ’em.”

  “Oh rats.”

  He came over to the corner of the saddle shed where I was standing. “Sit down.” He sat down and gave me his patented Drover Look: two eyes, clear and wide, that revealed absolutely nothing behind them. “I’ve been going over this case.”

  “Which case?”

  I studied him. “What do you mean, which case? Do you remember anything that happened last night?”

  He twisted his mouth and squinted one eye. “Well, let’s see. I heard a mouse in the machine shed . . . and it rained, boy we had a terrible storm up at the machine shed.”

  “What about fighting with the fiends? What about being trapped in the garden?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “And what about your disappearing act when Loper showed up with the flashlight? You remember any of that?”

  “It’s kind of hazy.”

  “And the trampled tomato plants?”

  He sneezed. “It’s coming back now. They bade be sdeeze.”

  “Very good, Drover. Now I want you to listen. I’ve been working the case this morning and I think I’ve got it solved.”

  “Oh good.”

  I marched back and forth in front of him, softened my voice, and gave him a disarming smile. “But I need to ask you a question or two.”

  “Sure, Hank, ask me anything.”

  “All rightsie. Now, if you recall, your orders last night were to patrol the eastern quadrant of headquarters, yet after our tussle with a pair of fiends, you turned up in the middle of the front lot, which is in the western quadrant of headquarters. Could you explain how that happen
ed?”

  “Well . . . it was awful dark and . . . maybe I got lost.”

  “I see. Maybe you got lost. Is it possible, Drover, that you never made it to your alleged territory? Is it possible that you were in the front lot all the time?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Is it possible that I was foolish enough to believe you were in your assigned territory and mistook you for a fiend?”

  “That’s an interesting question.”

  “Yes indeed. And here’s another one: is it possible that, instead of scuffling with a pair of fiends, you and I were scuffling with each other?”

  “Well . . .”

  Suddenly I whirled around. “You needn’t answer because I’m telling you that’s what happened. There were no fiends, Drover, only your mutton-headed incompetence. And if there were no fiends, then it follows that fiends couldn’t have moved the garden fifteen degrees to the south.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Look at that garden. Does it appear to you that it’s been moved in the last twenty-four hours?”

  He squinted his eyes. “Well . . .”

  “Of course it hasn’t been moved! What kind of moron would think a garden could be moved?”

  “Well . . . it sounded okay last night.”

  “To you maybe, but I smelled a rat from the very beginning. I never quite swallowed that story, but guess who got caught amidst the trampled vegetables. And blamed.”

  There was a long silence as Drover studied the clouds. “Well let’s see . . .”

  “I got the blame, as usual. Do you understand the position you’ve put me in?”

  His head began to sink.

  “You’ve made me look like a complete fool. My reputation has suffered irrepressible harm, all because you didn’t go where you were assigned to go—and also because you’re a sawed-off, chicken-hearted little dunce.”

  A tear rolled down his face. “I don’t mean to be.”

  “I ought to strip you of your rank.”

  “I don’t have any rank.”

  “Oh yes you do. As of this moment, I’m promoting you to First Deputy Assistant Head of Ranch Security.”

  “Thanks, Hank.”

  “Congratulations. And as of this moment, I’m stripping you of your rank. You’re busted, Drover, you’re back where you started, and I’m afraid this will have to go in your dossier.”

  “Oh darn.”

  “And one last thing. The next time we get caught in some act of foolishness, would you please not disappear and run to the machine shed?”

  “Well . . . wouldn’t it make me look bad if I got caught?”

  “Yes, it would, Drover, but that’s the whole point. I would like to share the blame with you.”

  “That’s mighty thoughtful.”

  “It’s the least I can do. I mean, a guy can’t go around thinking of himself all the time.”

  “Yeah, ’cause if he does, he never thinks of anyone but himself.”

  “Right. He becomes self-centered and callous. He cuts himself off from the, the, the warmth and communion of other creatures.”

  “And in the wintertime, that can be mighty cold.”

  “Exactly. Sharing is what this life is all about, Drover. And that’s why I want you to go sit in the garden this morning.”

  “All morning?”

  “Just until Sally May comes down.”

  “Well . . . what if she thinks I tore up the tomato plants?”

  I studied the sky. “That’s a risk you’ll have to take, but I think the experience will be worth it. Just remember that this is a sharing experience.”

  “A sharing experience.”

  I put my paw on his shoulder. “I want to do this for you, Drover. I think it’s important to your growth and education.”

  “Well . . . if you really think . . .”

  “I do. Now scram, go sit in the garden.”

  “I’m liable to start sneezing.”

  “That’s fine, no problem. If you feel a sneeze coming on, just rear back and by George express yourself. That’s one of your problems, Drover, you don’t express yourself enough.”

  “Well, okay. Just sit in the garden, huh?”

  “Right. And think of sharing.”

  “Okay, Hank, here I go.” And off he went, skipping into the garden. As per my orders, he sat down in the midst of the wreckage and started sneezing.

  You might say that I slipped around the corner and took cover behind the saddle shed, since I didn’t want to, uh, hog all the attention. I figgered Sally May would be down in ten to fifteen minutes to survey the damage, and then the fireworks would start.

  My conscience bothered me for a solid minute and a half. I mean, it takes a certain kind of vision and toughness for a guy to send his men out on a suicide mission, even when he knows in his heart it’s for their own good. But as they say, “If you can’t stand the heat, don’t sleep in the oven.”

  The minutes dragged by, first five minutes, then ten, then fifteen, in that order. Sally May didn’t show. I was getting bored and restless. I had many things to do on my list of things to do. I ain’t the kind of dog who’s content to sit around counting the flies, regardless of how many flies there are.

  I peeked around the corner of the saddle shed, and what I saw may come as a surprise. I saw, not Sally May, as you might have suspected, for she was nowhere to be seen; but Pete the Barncat—a local character for whom I had very little use.

  It would have been very satisfying to me personally, as one of Pete’s more devoted enemies, if Sally May had appeared at that moment, for she just might have leaped to the conclusion that her treasured cat had contributed to the damage.

  I couldn’t help smiling. My plan was working to perfection, for you see, it had been part of my plan that Pete would come along, step into the trap I had so carefully laid for him, and get himself showered with rocks and clods by an outraged Sally May.

  Your average barncat is no match for a highly conditioned, highly trained, thoroughly disciplined cowdog with a mastery of battlefield strategy and the, shall we say, nasty little twists of a well-planned espionage operation.

  Yes. It was all going according to plan. Very shortly, Sally May would appear and Pete would become kitty non grata, which was only fair and right because Pete was about as non grata as any cat I’d ever come across.

  Sally May didn’t show. The minutes ticked by and I found myself observing Drover and the cat. It suddenly occurred to me that something odd was going on between them.

  Clue #1: Instead of talking in a normal voice, they began to whisper.

  Clue #2: They were casting glances in my direction.

  Clue #3: Upon completion of #1 and #2, they went into periods of extended laughter.

  In security work, it’s an established rule that it takes three clues to make a case. One clue might be the result of coincidence. Two clues should arouse suspicion. Three clues should be followed up with further investigation.

  And I was just the guy who could handle that little situation. I swaggered out, ducked under the wooden gate there beside the saddle shed, and marched my bad self over to the garden.

  Pete had been whispering in Drover’s ear. When he saw my enormous hulk looming up before him, he ceased his whispering and giggling and other forms of silly behavior and said, “Hmm, my goodness, the cops are here.”

  “You got that right, son. Now, I’m very busy and I want some straight answers. Number one, what’s going on around here—and don’t bother to lie because I’ve had you under surveillance for the last hour.”

  Drover spoke up. “We were just talking.”

  “That’s right, Hankie, we were just . . . talking.”

  “I’m well aware that you were talking, cat, and I have reason to think you were talking about ME.”

 
; Pete arched his back and started digging his claws into the dirt. “Why would we want to talk about such a boring subject?”

  “Out with it, cat. What were you saying?”

  “Well,” said Pete, “I just bet Drover a chicken bone that if we looked toward the saddle shed and laughed, you’d be in the garden within thirty seconds.”

  Drover nodded his head. “That’s what he said, all right.”

  “That’s just what I thought he said,” I said.

  “And then,” Drover went on, “he bet me another chicken bone that when you got here, you wouldn’t close your eyes, turn around three times, and count to twenty.”

  “Oh yeah?” I shot a wicked grin at the cat. “You were foolish enough to bet against me on that, huh? Well, I’ve got some bad news, Kitty-Kitty. You just lost the bet.”

  Pete yawned and flicked the end of his tail. “You haven’t done it yet.”

  I went nose-to-nose with him. “No, but I’m fixing to. The next time you want to outsmart Hank the Cowdog, you’d better bring your lunch, because it’s liable to take you all day.”

  Pete grinned. “I still don’t think you’ll do it.”

  “Oh yeah? Stand back and study your lessons.”

  They moved back and gave me some room and I began the maneuver. I closed my eyes, turned around twenty times, and counted to three.

  In the midst of this procedure, I found myself wondering why Pete had issued such a silly challenge. I mean, this was a piece of cake for me. But I had learned long ago not to apply logic to the behavior of a cat.

  “There we are, and you lose the bet.” I opened my eyes, staggered five steps to the north (you might say that those twenty turn-arounds left me a little dizzy), and noticed . . .

  HUH?

  Pete and Drover had vanished.

  Sally May and Little Alfred, her three-year-old son, were standing on the other side of the hogwire fence. Her hair was up in curlers, her eyes were up in flames, and she was reaching for a clod.

  “YOU’VE RUINED MY GARDEN, YOU NASTY DOG!”

  Hey, wait a minute . . . there was a simple ex­planation . . .

  Sally May had a good arm and a deadly aim. The clod got me in the ribs on the left side. I lit a shuck and got the heck out of there.