The Case of the Saddle House Robbery Page 3

  You be the judge.

  Okay, I guess some of you are still with me. Thanks. This’ll be pretty rough, and I’m glad to have your support in troubled times.

  Here we go. This guy didn’t just step out and yell. He LEAPED out, made claws with his hands, made fangs with his teeth, and came RUNNING toward me! Oh, and he was also GROWLING! And he had a horrible ugly face. Horrible.

  Honest. This is no exaggeration.

  What kind of person would do such things? I had no idea. The man was obviously some kind of . . . I don’t know what. A disturbed person, perhaps even . . .

  We fed all our information straight into Data Control and got back a shocking message. It said that this guy had all the markings and so-forths of . . . you’d better hang on for this . . . a vampire!

  Chapter Four: Holy Smokes, a Vampire on the Ranch!

  Don’t laugh. Vampires growl and bite and show their teeth, right? And they’re ugly, right?

  When an unauthorized vehicle pulls up in front of the house, we never know who or what it might contain. Maybe it’s a family out for a Sunday drive in the country, but maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s a carload of . . . vampires or grave-robbers or escaped crinimals or . . . we never know.

  We try not to think about such things. I mean, we have a job to do and we can’t dwell on all the terrible things that could happen to us when we’re making a Short Squirt Procedure.

  And there I was. I had just moved into position and was about to initiate the procedure on the rear tire, when this lunatic vampire came flying out the door, made claws, bared his teeth, started growling, and came lurching toward me.

  I was frozen by fear. Never in my entire career had I seen anything quite like this. I saw the veins bulging in his horrible eyes. I even saw . . . or thought I saw . . . blood dripping off his fangs. In a flash, I threw all circuits over to Data Control’s Master Program, and things started happening real fast. Right away, we got a warning light on the Coolant Panel. The cryogenic cooling system that ran the Squirt Program had just failed. We were getting nothing but tiny droplets through the system. All at once, the mission was on hold.

  Then, seconds later, we got a second alarm, this one even more frightening than the first. Master Control had gone to Condition Red, and we had got­ten the order to go to Vampire Countermeasures.

  Perhaps you’re surprised that we had trained for this contagency. We had. Even though the chances of finding vampires on the ranch were pretty low, we had prepared for it. Our training called for a rapid, multi-layered response. Would you like to take a peek at it? I don’t suppose it would hurt.

  First thing, we went to Full Flaps on the ears—jumped ’em up to their very highest position. Next, we uttered a code word that locked in the Vamp­Count program. The code word, in case you’d like to know, was . . . “HUH?” That short, three-letter word kicked in Vampire Countermeasures and things started happening real fast.

  We went to Full Reverse on all engines and began moving backward at a high rate of speed, but at the same time, we launched a bark that was intended to freeze the emeny in his tracks. The enemy, I should say, freeze the enemy in his tracks.

  Well, it didn’t work. He kept coming, slouching, growling, and making threatening gestures with his teeth, eyes, and claws. We launched a second bark, this one even bigger than the first. We had to do something to stop the guy, or at least slow his rate of attack.

  He kept coming.

  Well, by this time it had become crystal clear that this was no ordinary vampire. He ate dogs. And fellers, once our intelligence network had established this fact, we had pretty muchly run out of options. We had trained for Moderate Vampires, not Serious Vampires, and all at once our hands were cut out for us.

  Up in the cockpit, I heard the voice of Master Control: “Uh, Lone Ranger, we’re showing a Condi­tion Dark Red. We need to get you out of there right away. We’re switching you over to the Sell-the-Farm Program. Take cover, and good luck, soldier.”

  There you are. You heard it from the voice of Master Control, just as I did, and no doubt you shared with me the tension and seriousness of the moment. Pretty scary, huh? You bet it was, but I tried to warn you.

  Are you still with me? Hang on. We’re not out of the woods yet.

  Okay, let’s back up for a second. Master Control broke in on our normal communications channel and told us to switch to the Sell-the-Farm Pro­gram, right? This was a deeply coded message and you’re probably wondering what it meant. That’s the whole purpose of codes, see, to confuse the enemy.

  Maybe you knew that.

  In our code system (we were using the Ultra Confuso code that month), we didn’t use such battle terms as run, Mayday, retreat, or help. Those were common words, and they were known to our enemies, so we had a heavily coded expression that meant the same thing: Sell-the-Farm.

  Pretty clever, huh? Good thing I’m here to explain all this stuff.

  Well, when my inner ears picked up that coded message, I prepared to eject and scuttle the ship—or, to keep within the perambulates of the coding system, to “Sell the Farm.” Things happened very fast. I abandoned the Marking Procedure and blew out of there in a cloud of dust, leaving the savage vampire to wonder how I had managed to escape the clutches of his clutch.

  Here’s how I did it. You’ll be impressed, I think. See, instead of running far away, as most ordinary dogs would have done, I pretended to run far away and wiggled myself beneath the vampire’s pickup—the very last place a vampire would look for his victim.

  Awesome, huh?

  And once hidden in the basement of his pickup, I assumed the Stealthy Crouch Position, which means that I neither moved nor breathed nor nothinged, and therefore became invisible to Vampire Vision and even enemy radar.

  There . . . I waited. The silence, the tension, the pressure were almost unbearable. My ears picked up the sound of footsteps, yet I remained in the Frozen Stealth Position. I dared not move. Then, out of the corner of my periphery, I saw . . .

  HUH?

  . . . a face. A human face. A grinning human . . .

  Okay, relax. This was just a, uh, test of our . . .

  We’ve discussed Slim Chance, right? And his twisted infantile sense of humor? He thinks he’s some kind of comedian and he seems to get weird pleasure out of making ME the butt of his laughingstock.

  If it happened only once or twice a year, I could overlook it, but it happens over and over and again and again. Sometimes I even get the feeling that . . . well, he doesn’t take my job very seriously. I’m sorry to put it that way, but the evidence derned sure points in that direction.

  Here’s the deal. There was no vampire. Slim was the driver of the pickup all along, and let me hasten to add that he’d done something to disguise his pickup. He’d . . . I don’t know what he’d done, but it looked different, very different. Maybe he’d washed off some of the caliche dust. Yes, that was it, and when he saw me rushing to mark his tires—taking care of ranch business—when he so-forthed me so-forthing the pickup, he just couldn’t resist indulging himself in childish follyrot, and he did that vampire routine.

  Oh sure, I’d seen it all before. He’d pulled it on me a dozen times. It was an old, tired, stale joke—only this time he gave it a new twist. Always before, see, he’d done Vampire with his own natural face, but this time he just happened to be in possession of Little Alfred’s Halloween mask, which was the face of a . . . something.

  Okay, maybe it was a gorilla mask, but in the heat of battle, who the heck knows a gorilla from a vampire? And who has time to sit there and figure it out?

  Any dog who saw that face would have thought it was a vampire. I mean, he was making claws and growling, don’t forget that, and slouching toward me like . . . I don’t know what. Like some kind of huge Frankincense Monster, and any Head of Ranch Security would have . . .

  Well, our eyes met.
He was grinning, obviously very proud of himself—for what I couldn’t imagine. I, on the other hand, beamed him Looks of Wounded Pride, and went to Slow Taps on my tail. Tap, tap, tap. Through looks and taps, I sent him a message:

  “I can’t believe you’ve done this to me again. I can’t believe I fell for it again. It saddens me that you would make such a mockery of my position on this ranch.”

  He got a huge chuckle out of it, of course, and to add to the sadness of the occasion, Little Alfred peeked under the pickup and saw me in my state of . . .

  I held my head at a proud angle and tried to salvage a few shreds of dignity. Throughout the ages, small minds have always scoffed and giggled at the bold and the brave—at anyone who dared to be different or to think new thoughts.

  Sir Figgly Newton invented the apple—and they laughed.

  Galileo invented pizza—and they laughed.

  Shakesbeer wrote tender poems—and they laughed.

  Columbus discovered Ohio—and they laughed.

  The names roll on and on—inventors, explorers, poemers, generals, heroes—and they were all mocked by the small minds of their day. Fine. I would take my place with those proud names and . . . phooey.

  Slim thought he was so funny. Well, he wasn’t funny, not at all, but never mind.

  After he had gotten his yuks and giggles out of my misfortune, he tried to make peace with me.

  “Did you think I was a gorilla monster, Hankie?”

  No. I thought you were a childish nincompoop.

  “Well, I just couldn’t resist.”

  Yes, I was aware of that.

  “Come on out and let’s be pals again.”

  Pals? Ha! The damage had already been done. Sorry. Wounds just didn’t heal overnight, and some wounds never healed at all.

  “Oh, come on.”

  No. I had been shamed and humiliated. I had no choice but to remain under the pickup forever and ever. Slim could just find himself another dog.

  “Hey, pooch, I found a stray dog wandering around on the county road. You might want to come out and meet him.”

  HUH?

  A stray dog? On my ranch? Why hadn’t I been informed . . .

  Okay, it appeared that we had a stray dog situation on the ranch. Duty was calling. I swallowed my wounded pride and wiggled myself out from under the pickup.

  That’s when I met Jake.

  Chapter Five: Jake, the Strange Bird Dog

  Everyone on the ranch came out to see this new dog: Sally May, Baby Molly, Alfred, Pete, and even Loper. Loper had been working on the tractor and must have heard Slim’s pickup approaching.

  How did I know that Loper had been working on the tractor? Easy. He reeked of diesel fuel, and he had smudges of grease on his hands, clothes, and left cheek. The cowboys on this outfit aren’t very good at mechanic work, see, and they always end up wearing dease and griesel.

  Grease and diesel, shall we say.

  Oh, and he was in a foul mood. They’re always mad when they have to work on machinery.

  He was wiping his hands on a red grease rag. His eyes went to me, and then to Slim. “What was Hank doing under your pickup?”

  Slim chuckled. “We was playing Monster Watch, and I think I had him pretty well fooled.”

  He held up the gorilla mask. Loper scowled at it and wagged his head back and forth. “Well, we don’t get much work done on this ranch, but we keep the dogs entertained. That’s important. And speaking of dogs, what’s that in the back of your pickup?”

  All eyes swung around to . . . the new dog. He appeared to be one of your varieties of bird dog—short hair, white with spots, floppy ears, and a long stick tail. He was old and skinny.

  “I found him up on the county road. He’s wearing a collar with the name ‘Jake.’ I reckon that’s his name.”

  Loper walked closer to the pickup and looked down at Jake. “What did you have in mind for Jake?”

  “Oh, let him camp with Hank and Drover ’til the owner shows up. Somebody’ll be looking for him, don’t you reckon? Maybe they was out hunting quail and Jake wandered off.”

  Loper reached out his hand and rubbed Jake on the head. Jake looked away. “He’s not very friendly, is he?”

  “Well, that’s a bird dog for you. They spend all their time in a kennel and it kindly warps their brains. I’ve got the same problem, only mine comes from being stuck out here on this workhouse of a ranch. Never get a day off. Never get to go to town. Never have any fun.”

  Loper stared at him. “Well, you and Jake ought to be great pals, you’re so much alike. Why don’t you haul him down to your place?”

  “’Cause there’s no dogs down there and he’d run off.”

  “Tie him up.”

  “Then he’d moan and cry all night and I’d miss my beauty sleep.”

  “I’d say that you’ve already missed most of it.”

  “Yeah, but if I missed any more, I wouldn’t be as sweet and charming as usual, and then we’d have a grouchy hired hand trying to get along with a grumpy boss. Oh, by the way, I ran into Deputy Kile on the road. He says there’s a saddle thief in the county.”

  “A saddle thief! We haven’t had one of those in a long time.”

  “Yalp. We’d better keep an eye out for strangers.”

  Loper shook his head and looked away. “Okay, unload the dog. But if the owner doesn’t show up in a few days, we’re going to move him down to your place, since this was your big idea. Three days, that’s it.”

  Slim let down the tailgate of the pickup and called Jake. Jake ignored him, and even turned the other direction. Slim grumbled and ended up having to drag the dog to the rear of the pickup and set him on the ground. Then he called me over to meet the new dog.

  Have we discussed my position on bird dogs? I don’t like ’em, never have. In the first place, they all seem to be a little weird. I mean, chasing birds is a pretty strange thing for a dog to do, isn’t it? And in the second place . . .

  It hurts me to say this, but we might as well go straight to the truth. A bird dog stole the lady of my dreams.

  There. Now it’s out on the table. We’re talking about Miss Beulah the Collie, of course, and her pal Plato. Ah, sweet Beulah of the flaxen hair and the long collie nose! Be still my heart! I could never understand what she saw in that mutt, or why she would chose a bird dog over a cowdog, but she did. I’ll say no more about it.

  Yes, I will. It broke my heart into thirty-seven pieces and I may never get over it. When they put up my tombstone, I want it to say in big letters, “WHAT DID SHE SEE IN THAT CREEP?”

  I try to go on with my life, but it’s not easy.

  I still dream about her, and one of these days . . .oh well.

  But the point is that I don’t like bird dogs, never have, and never will, and when Slim called me over to meet his new bird dog pal, I went—but only because it was forced upon me.

  “Hankie, this here’s Jake. Y’all are going to be good buddies for a few days.”

  I looked at Jake and he . . . gave me a glimpse and then looked away. The guy had no manners at all. This wasn’t going to work, I could see that right away, and to express my feelings on the subject, I raised a strip of hair along my backbone and gave him a curled lip and a growl.

  Slim nudged me with his boot. “Hey. None of that. Get along with him and keep him out of trouble. That’s your job, pooch.”

  My job? Hey, I already had a job. In case he hadn’t noticed, I was Head of Ranch Security, which had nothing to do with baby-sitting stray bird dogs or playing foolish monster games with idle cowboys.

  Slim was still looking at me. “Hank, I’d be pleased if you volunteered for this job.”

  Volunteered? Me? Ha. He could forget that.

  “’Cause if you don’t volunteer, I’ll be forced to yoke you and Jake together with a sho
rt piece of rope, so’s y’all can get acquainted.”

  What? He wouldn’t dare.

  I didn’t think he would yoke us together, but derned if he didn’t. Next thing I knew, he’d tied us together, collar to collar, with a three-foot piece of hay twine.

  “Now, when y’all decide to be nice and get along, I’ll take off the twine. ’Bye now. I’ll check you later.”

  He climbed into his pickup and drove down to the corrals. Loper went back up to the machine shed. Sally May, Baby Molly, and Alfred went to town for Alfred’s dentist appointment.

  Suddenly I found myself alone with this . . . this sour, skinny old bird dog. Our eyes met. His were kind of squinty, as though he couldn’t see real well.

  I was the first to make an effort to establish the friendship. I said, “I don’t like bird dogs.”

  To which he replied, in a kind of mumbling, muttering voice, “I must get back to my work.”

  “That sounds good to me, pal. I have things to do myself. See you around.”

  Having established our relationship, we headed out of there in opposite . . . GULK . . . directions, only we were . . .

  “Hey, I’m going west. I have to do a patrol of the corral area.”

  “I must return to Madagascar,” he grumbled.

  “Great. Go to Magadascar . . . Malagasper . . . go wherever you want.”

  And with that last exchange, we parted company. I headed west and the bird dog . . . GULK! Do you see what Slim had done to me? He had tied me to this . . . this sour, ill-tempered bag of bird dog bones, and . . . okay, I would just have to drag the mutt around with me. I had no other choice, because I had no intention of sitting there in front of the house all day.

  I went west and the bird dog went south. I pulled and tugged. He pulled and tugged. Ten minutes later, we had drifted about twenty feet to the southwest, and we were both tired and out of breath.