Faded Love Page 3

  I loped back to the west and caught up with him. “You feeling better now?”

  “Yeah, now that I’m going home, I feel great . . . except I’m still hungry.”

  We’d just about reached the water gap by this time. “I’m feeling a little gant myself, Drover. Tell you what we’re going to do. About a mile east of here, there’s a low-water crossing. Let’s me and you hot-foot it over there, and if you really want me to, I’ll teach you how to live off the land.”

  “I never did that before.”

  “That’s my whole point. See, what you don’t know is that this world’s just full of food—berries, roots, fish, wild game, you name it. And it’s all out here, waiting for us to find it and eat it.”

  “Really?”

  “Drover, once you’ve lived off the land, you’ll never want another chunk of Co-op dog food.”

  “No fooling?”

  “Trust me.”

  “And then can I go home?”

  “Yes. We’ll definitely take that under advisement at the proper time. Come on, let’s go.”

  He hesitated and looked across the fence. “Well . . . it might be fun, and I sure am hungry.”

  “That’s the spirit! Let’s motivate.”

  We headed down the creek again, this time at a faster clip. I kept glancing over at Mr. Home­sickn­ess and expecting him to have another attack, but I guess he was thinking about food. When a guy thinks from his gut, it changes his whole attitude.

  We reached the crossing along toward the middle of the afternoon. It was kind of a cement dam, see, with the country road going over the top, and there was a little pool of water backed up on the upstream side.

  When we walked up to the pool, we could see the perch and minnows swimming around.

  “You see that, Drover? This creek is alive with food. It’s everywhere! Our biggest problem is going to be trying to decide whether we want froglegs, minnows, crawdads, or fish for supper.”

  “I want a big fish.”

  “You want a big fish, by George we’ll get you one. How big a fish you want?”

  “Oh, three or four pounds ought to be plenty.”

  “A four-pounder be all right? Coming right up! Watch me and study your lessons.”

  I figgered the quickest way to teach the runt was to demonstrate. I mean, lectures and classroom stuff have their place, but there’s no substitute for real live, on-the-spot training.

  I chose a place where the bank was maybe two feet above the water. I crouched down in some tall grass and directed my unusually keen vision toward the pool below. The dark green tint of the water told me that it was a deep hole.

  See, if you want little fish, you go to shallow water. But if you’re stalking four-pounders, you set up shop over a deep hole. This is fairly common knowledge among experienced hunters, but I had to explain it to Drover.

  “Now, all we have to do is wait.”

  “Gosh, that sounds easy!”

  “You’re catching on, son. You’re gonna love this easy life, and just wait until you sink your teeth into that four-pounder.”

  I was crouched on the bank, my muscles cocked and ready to explode. All I needed was a victim.

  The minutes passed. Herds of minnows swam past, little perch, a couple of small bass, water spiders, more minnows, and more minnows. I was about to fall asleep . . .

  Then I saw something large. This was no minnow, no measly perch. It was BIG. Every muscle in my highly conditioned body waited for the command to strike.

  It was a turtle. “How would you feel about a nice mud turtle for supper, Drover?”

  “I don’t like mud. Hank, I’m starving.”

  “Patience, son. Ah-ha! Look what’s right be­hind the turtle.”

  This was it, the one we had been waiting for—a huge, enormous, fat fish.

  “There’s our fish,” I whispered. “Range: six feet. Depth: eighteen inches. Bearing: oh-two-zero-zero. Speed: just about right. Ready. Aim. BONZAI!”

  I exploded out of my attack position, reached maximum altitude, leveled off, straightened out, and began my plunge toward the unsuspecting fish. As I streaked toward the water in a graceful arc, the fish appeared even larger than before. Indeed, the thought crossed my mind that Drover and I together wouldn’t be able to eat him.

  Most experts regard fish as fairly stupid animals, yet we must give them credit for having a certain dull-witted instinct for survival. Even though my attack was perfectly planned and flawlessly executed, somehow the fish got wind of it. And with one flick of his tail, he vanished.

  Canceling the mission at that point was out of the question. I mean, you get into some heavy physics, with thrust and forces and vectors and other stuff that’s much too complicated to go into. It’s the kind of stuff we deal with every day in the security business but . . .

  The point is that once you get a mass of pure muscle traveling downward at a high rate of speed, the physical forces unleashed can’t be reversed. Furthermore, in the event that someone miscalculated the depth of the water, this projectile is likely to enter the creek, pass through the shallow liquid, and strike the bottom with tremendous force.

  That derned creek wasn’t nearly as deep as I thought, never mind what color it was. I buried my nose in six inches of mud on the bottom.

  And before you laugh at my misfortune and pass it off as just one of life’s many jokes, let me point out just how serious it is when a guy gets his nose buried in six inches of mud—under the danged water.

  Okay, first of all, your nose doesn’t just pop out of the mud, right? And second of all, it’s very hard to breathe when you’re trapped in deadly quicksand—well, mud. And third of all, stasstisstics, satisticks, suhtickles . . . numbers collected by governmental agencies show that most of the people and animals who drowned between 1945 and 1984 had their heads under water.

  So laugh if you wish, but this was a life-threatening situation. I could have very easily by George drownded.

  No ordinary dog could have gotten out of that pit of deadly quicksand. I mean, that stuff didn’t just hold me, it was trying to suck me down, deeper and deeper.

  I tried to call for help, but as you might have already surmised, that didn’t work. I kicked all four legs in the air. I thrashed, I fought, I twisted and turned and flailed the water, and with each frash and thrail . . . uh, thrash and frail, my life inched closer to darkness and doom.

  I repeat: no ordinary dog could have escaped this gruesome death. I escaped. Just follow the logic to its conclusion. When you have logic doing your talking, you don’t need to brag.

  With only seconds of life left, I tore myself from the clutches of the deadly Quicksand Monster, and before he could get me again, I staggered out onto dry land.

  Drover was there, wagging his tail. “Did you catch the fish? How’d you get all that mud on your nose?”

  Gasping for breath, I collapsed on the bank. “Never mind . . . the danged fish . . . don’t go near . . . that water . . . horrible Quicksand Mon­ster . . . tried to kill me . . . fought him off . . . just barely made it.”

  Drover rolled his eyes around. “Where’d he go?”

  “Water . . . deep, bottomless pit . . . stay back.”

  “Hank, I want to go home.”

  “No, it’s all right . . . whipped him, ran him back into the pit . . . just one thing, Drover.”

  “What?”

  At last I caught my breath. “Under the circumstances, I think it would be a good idea for us to have minnows for supper.”

  Chapter Five: The Lovely Miss Scamper

  We were in the process of moving our hunting camp downstream to shallower water, when all at once we heard a car coming down the hill toward the crossing. We waited for it to pass.

  It didn’t pass, and it wasn’t a car. It was an old green Chevy pickup. It slowed down and
came to a stop in the middle of the low water crossing.

  This struck me as very suspicious. I mean, darkness was coming on. Why would someone stop a pickup in the middle of the crossing with darkness coming on?

  “Hey, Drover. Lie down flat in this tall grass and don’t make a sound.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Shhh! Unless I’m badly mistaken, we’ve just found ourselves a cattle rustler.”

  “Oh my gosh! I didn’t know cattle could drive a pickup.”

  “What? No, no, you don’t understand.” I ex­plained about cattle rustlers. “You see, cattle rustling is one of the crimes we’re hired to stop. It’s part of the job.”

  He crouched down in the grass. “I thought we didn’t have a job. Didn’t we quit?”

  “Technically speaking, yes. But at a deeper level, Drover, a cowdog can never resign his commission. It’s our job to protect the world, not just one ranch. And cattle rustlers are our sworn enemies.”

  “Are they mean?”

  “The very meanest sort of riffraff. They’re hardened crinimals, extremely dangerous.”

  Drover gulped. “Hank, how far is it to the machine shed?”

  “About three miles.”

  “If a guy got scared out here and wanted to hide, where would he go?”

  “He’d just have to stand his ground and fight, Drover, that’s the long and short of it. Now shut your little trap and let’s watch this thing develop. Memorize every detail.”

  A man got out of the pickup and stretched. Description: medium height, slim build, age 40, dark narrow eyes, a big drooping black mustache between his nose and upper lip.

  Clothing: straw hat, short-sleeved western shirt with snap buttons, black boots with underslung heels, blue jeans, leather belt with “Baxter” on the back.

  There was something familiar about this guy. I’d run into him somewhere before, and I was willing to bet that he had a criminal record as long as your leg.

  He walked a couple of steps to his right and looked over into the bed of the pickup, and then he spoke to someone: “How you doing, Scamp? You stay in the back. I won’t be long.”

  I nudged Drover in the ribs. Must have scared him ’cause he squawked. “Shhh! You want to get us shot?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then keep quiet. I just wanted to point out that our suspect is named Baxter.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Son, after you’ve spent years in this business, you remember certain names and faces. That guy’s a notorious outlaw. He’s been around. And what worries me is that he’s got his gang in the back of the pickup.”

  Drover peeked over the top of the grass. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “Well, silly, do you think they’re going to stand up and do handsprings? Of course not. They’re hiding back there, which is just another clue that they’re up to no good.”

  “How far did you say it was to the machine shed?”

  “Shhhh!”

  The notorious Baxter reached into the pickup bed and came out with a . . . what was it? A gun? A knife? I squinted and whispered to Drover, “What is that thing he just pulled out?”

  “Looks like a bucket to me.”

  “A bucket! Don’t be absurd. Listen, this guy’s a dangerous outlaw. He wouldn’t defend himself with a bucket.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  But you know what? It was a danged bucket, which just didn’t fit the usual M.O. (Modus of Operationus). He climbed down the cement crossing, went to the creek, and filled the bucket with water.

  “Now, what’s that guy up to? Wait, I’ve got it. He’s stealing fish. Yes sir, he’s poaching.”

  “I thought you said he was a cattle ruffler.”

  “It’s rustler, and with his record, he’s liable to do anything, as long as it’s against the law.”

  “Oh. Well, I hope he has better luck catching fish than you did or we’ll be up all night.”

  “That’s very possible, Drover, but if that’s what it takes to work this case, that’s what we’ll do.”

  The suspect filled his bucket, climbed back to the road, set the bucket down, opened the hood of his pickup, took the cap off the radiator, and started pouring the water.

  Drover raised up and stared. “He’s putting fish in his motor!”

  I studied the evidence and sifted through all the clues. “You’re right, Drover. Somehow this just doesn’t fit the pattern. There’s something very peculiar going on here.”

  At that moment, I saw a head appear out of the bed of the pickup—not a human head, as you might have expected, but the head of a dog.

  Description: Beagle, age approximately two years three months. Long ears. White band around a nose dotted with brown freckles. Gorgeous big brown eyes just below long lashes.

  Summary: The second suspect was not only a woman, but an uncommonly beautiful beagle dog who instantly raised my blood pressure and made me forget that Baxter was putting fish into his radiator.

  She looked in our direction and barked. It was a half-bark, half-bay that is common among your foxhounds, your bloodhounds, your bassets, and your beagles. She had seen us, and I had no choice but to go up there and ask her a few questions.

  “Drover, you stay here and . . .”

  He had seen her too. “Hank, that’s a woman! And gosh, she’s awful cute. I’m going with you.”

  “All right, but stay behind me and don’t get in the way.”

  We came out of our hiding place and swaggered up to the pickup. “Evening, ma’am. My name’s Hank the Cowdog, Head of Ranch Security. I’ll need to ask you a few questions.”

  “My goodness,” she said in a sultry voice, “look what’s come out of the shadows! They call me Miss Scamper.”

  “And I’m Drover!”

  “Shut up, Drover. Miss Scamper, sagebrush is purple and cactus is green, you’re the prettiest beagle that I’ve ever seen.”

  She grinned. “My, my, you go right to the truth of the matter, don’t you.”

  Drover couldn’t keep his yap shut. “Fence posts are brown and barbed wire is rusted, the first time I saw you my heart pret’ near busted.”

  “Shut up, Drover.”

  Miss Scamper fluttered them long eyelashes. “You boys are just full of yourselves tonight.”

  I gave Drover an elbow and tried to push him under the pickup. “Yes ma’am, but I should warn you about Drover. He’s very mealy-mouthed and insincere, but speaking for myself, I’d have to say that the most beautiful sunset in the world is just a flashlight compared to you.”

  “You could be right about that, big boy. Did you say you had some questions to ask me?”

  “Yeah!” Up popped Drover again. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

  “Get lost, Drover.” I kicked him out of the way. “Yes ma’am, I’ve got a question or two. Where do you stay?”

  “Well now, I don’t ordinarily give out that information.” She gave me a wink. “But to the Head of Ranch Security, my goodness, I just about have to tell, don’t I?”

  “Uh, yes ma’am, I’d say it’s your civic duty.”

  “Yeah-yus indeed, and I’m a very civic woman.”

  For a moment there, I stopped breathing. “Yes ma’am, you’re about as civic as any woman I ever laid eyes on.”

  “I’m so glad you’re in the security business,” she fluffed at her hair, “or I might be feeling . . . ah . . . insecure.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

  “Yes ma’am, but I can assure you that your safret will be seek with me . . . uh, your secret will be safe with me.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Next ranch down the creek. Make a left at the mailbox. I’m there most of the time.”

  “I see. Well, uh, do you have a big fightin’ boy­friend?”

 
; “None that should bother you, big boy. I always enjoy cultivating new friends.”

  Drover crawled between my legs. “I’ll be your friend!”

  I shoved him away. “Well, I can already see that this case is going to require some serious investigation, Miss Scamper, and I think what I’d better do is take a little ride in the moonlight with you.”

  “Whatever the law requires, big boy.” I sprang up into the back of the pickup and sat down beside her. She looked me up and down. “Oooo! You’re quite a jumper, aren’t you?”

  “I’m saving my best tricks for later, ma’am.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Drover tried to get in, but couldn’t quite make it. “Hank, I want to go too. Don’t leave me.”

  “You stay here and scout the fish situation. I’ll be back in a couple of days.” I looked at Miss Scamper. “Or weeks.”

  The hood slammed. Baxter came around and set the bucket into the back. Now I remembered where I’d seen him. He’d helped Slim and Loper at the fall branding last year.

  Anyone could have mistaken . . . even though he was one of our neighbors on the creek, he looked very much like a cattle rustler and . . . never mind.

  He glared at me, and I gave him a big friendly grin, as if to say, “Hi there, how’s it going?”

  “What do you think you’re doing, pooch?”

  Before I could answer, he grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and one back leg and pitched me into the creek. When I came up for air, I saw the pickup pulling away.

  And Miss Scamper was waving good-bye.

  Chapter Six: Unexpected Company

  There for a minute I was afraid the Quicksand Monster was going to get me again, but I swam to shore with extra-strong strokes and managed to escape.

  I climbed out on the bank and shook myself. Drover stood nearby, looking his usual simple self.

  “Hank, did you jump or did that man throw you out?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well . . . I wasn’t sure, and I thought I’d ask.”