The Case of the Blazing Sky Page 4

  In the river of my mouth.

  My life is going south,

  For if I should get caught,

  I’d have to eat these chicken thoughts.

  On the other hand, there’s a kind of peace of mind that I am needing.

  It’s the calm that soothes the conscience after eating.

  Good digestion forms a link

  To what we do and think,

  ’Cause nourishment is part of mental health.

  Chickens . . .

  Pretty spooky song, huh? I thought so, but it sort of expressed the situation in which I found myself.

  I made my way toward . . . do I dare reveal my destination? I guess it wouldn’t hurt, and you’ve probably already guessed it anyway.

  The chicken house. If a guy wishes to mug a chicken after sundown, that’s where he goes, because that’s where chickens roost at night.

  It was very dark out there and I had switched my instruments over to Smelloradar, but then I noticed a flash of light off to the northwest. It appeared to be lightning inside a line of thunderclouds. This promised to be either good news or bad news: good news if it brought rain, bad news if we got lightning and no rain.

  See, dry lightning is a major cause of prairie fires, and don’t forget that our country was dry, very dry. I made a mental note to keep an eye on those clouds, once I had taken care of my, uh, business.

  Slurp.

  I crept through the darkness, up the hill to the flat area where the chicken house stood about twenty yards southwest of the machine shed. I paused to reconoodle the situation, cocked my left ear, and listened. Not a sound, except . . . okay, relax. It was just a distant thumber of rundle.

  Rumble of thunder, let us say, but nothing to worry about. I paused long enough to grab a quick gulp of air, knowing that I would need plenty of air to . . . well, to do what I was fixing to do, and we needn’t dwell on that.

  I turned my nose toward the dark outline of the chicken house and began my stealthy march toward . . .

  “Mmmmm. Hello, Hankie.”

  I froze in my tracks. The voice had come from somewhere above my present location. I lifted my eyes to the first branch of a chinaberry tree and saw . . . would you like to guess? Pete.

  The air hissed out of my lungs. “You again? Don’t you have anything better to do than lurk in trees?”

  “Not really, Hankie. See, I knew you’d be back and I decided to wait right here. Just as I suspected, you came back.”

  “Okay, Pete, you get an A for being a snoop. You’re the champ, so watch all you want and enjoy the show.”

  “Actually, Hankie, I’ve been thinking about your situation.”

  I studied his silhouette in the tree. He was sharpening his claws on a limb. “I didn’t know I had a ‘situation.’”

  “Of course you do. It’s just dawned on me that you’re out of dog food, you poor thing. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t consider it any of your business, kitty, and I still don’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “But Hankie, don’t you see? This changes everything.” He stopped clawing the limb and sat with his tail curled around his haunches. “It explains why you’re going to the chicken house. I had no idea!”

  I moved to the base of the tree and studied him for a moment. I noticed that he wasn’t smirking, which came as a shock. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Pete without an insolent smirk wrapped around his mouth.

  “What’s your point, kitty, or do you have a point?”

  “Actually, Hankie, I do.” He leaned out on the limb and said, “I can help!”

  HUH?

  His words went through me like a jolt of electricity. At first I was stunned, then I heard myself laughing. “Oh, that’s rich, Pete! Ha ha. After years of being a pestilence, you’ve decided to help? Ha ha! Sorry, pal, I don’t believe it.”

  He wasn’t laughing. “I know, Hankie, I never thought I’d be so moved by . . .” He turned his eyes toward heaven. “Well, by the spectacle of a loyal dog going hungry for a whole day. It’s . . . it’s so very sad.”

  I glanced over both shoulders, just to make sure that Drover wasn’t listening to this. I mean, carrying on friendly conversations with cats was strictly against regulations. “Pete, you’ll have to forgive me for not believing this. See, you’re a cat and cats never think of anyone but themselves.”

  He heaved a sigh. “I know, Hankie, we are inclined that way. All I can say is”—holy smokes, he seemed to be fighting back tears!—“your situation has touched my heart.”

  Gee, what does a guy say to that? I had to sit down. “Pete, don’t cry. I mean, I haven’t been starving or anything, but now you understand the strain I’ve been under . . . with the chickens and everything.”

  “I do, Hankie, I do! I don’t know how you’ve been able to hold yourself back.”

  “Well, it’s been tough, Pete. I won’t deny it. And I want the record to show that eating a chicken wasn’t my first choice of things to do.”

  “I understand, I do. It’s so sad that your human friends have pushed you into this. But Hankie, I want you to know that you deserve a chicken!”

  Wow. I was speechless. I mean, the scheming little reptile . . . Pete, I should say, had put it even better than I could have: I deserved a chicken! It took me several seconds to recover from the shock.

  “Pete, I must ask you a question. Are you being sincere about this? I mean, I’d really be mad if this turned out to be another of your tricks.”

  Get this. He sat up straight and placed a paw over his heart. “On my Honor as a Cat, Hankie, I swear by everything sacred and holy . . . that you’d be really mad if this turned out to be a trick.”

  Wow again. The cat had sworn a sacred oath and I couldn’t believe I’d heard it. This had never happened on our ranch before, never.

  After a moment of stunned silence, I managed to say, “Well, that settles it. I guess we’ll be working together on this job, pardner. You don’t mind if I call you ‘pardner,’ do you?”

  He came slithering down the tree. “Oh no! In fact, I think it has a nice ring to it.”

  He came over to me and started rubbing on my legs. As you know, I don’t care for that, but . . . what the heck, we had just entered a new chapter in our relationship and if my pardner wanted to rub on my legs, that was okay.

  “What did you have in mind, Pete?”

  He stopped rubbing and glanced over both shoulders. Then he leaned toward me and whispered behind his paw. “You’ll need me to unlock the chicken house door.”

  “I will?”

  “Oh yes. For the past two weeks, Sally May has been bolting the chicken house door. Didn’t you know that?”

  Huh? I turned away, so that he couldn’t see the shock on my face. “I didn’t say that. Of course I knew it. What’s your point?”

  “Yes. She’s seen some footprints around there, and she’s afraid that someone is going to get in. Anyway, the point is”—he raised a paw and wiggled his toes—“I know how to open the bolt.”

  “So you’re saying . . .”

  He fluttered his eyelids and grinned. “I’ll throw the bolt and hold the door open while you do your business. When you’re outside again, I’ll bolt it shut . . . and nobody will ever suspect a thing!”

  I couldn’t help being impressed. “Well, you think of everything, Pete. Nobody schemes better than a cat.”

  “You can bet on that.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, thank you, Hankie. Your trust really astounds me.”

  I patted him on the back. “Well, that’s what this life is all about, Pete, trusting each other and working together. Let’s get this over with. To be honest, I’m a little nervous.”

  “You should be.”

  “Right. I mean, this goe
s against all my training and instincts. I hope you understand that.”

  “Oh, I do, I do.”

  Pretty amazing, huh? You bet. Who would have thought that Pete and I would end up working on the same team . . . or that it would be his idea? He was just a dumb little ranch cat, but I guess he’d finally figured out that playing on a winning team is always a winner.

  We slipped through the darkness and made not a sound, and I had to give Pete some credit there. The guy was good at the stealthy stuff, and I was impressed that he didn’t seem the least bit nervous. In fact, the old Kitty Smirk had returned to his mouth, only now he was putting it to good use—smirking for Our Team.

  We crept up to the little door on the north side of the chicken house. As you may recall, there were two entrances, a big door for people and a smaller one near the ground that the chickens used. The smaller entrance had a hinged door that opened one way, to the outside. In the mornings, Sally May wired it open so that the chickens could go outside and spend the day chasing bugs. In the evenings, she shut them up again, to protect them from . . . uh, bad guys.

  That little door would be my Entry Point into the Target Area. Our most recent satellite pictures had revealed that Sally May had started bolting the door, see, and that’s why I had hired an assistant to help with the job. Heh heh. Was that clever or what?

  We stopped beside the chicken entrance and I studied the door. Sure enough, there was a new brass device with a sliding bolt, just as our satellite imagery had predicted. Everything checked out and we were ready. I took one last look around. The sky was dark and quiet except for an occasional flash of lightning and thumder of rundle.

  “Okay, pardner, I guess we’re ready. You lift the door and hold it open. I’ll snatch a bird and run. Make sure nothing goes wrong. It wouldn’t be funny if I got trapped in there.” I heard something that sounded like muffled laughter.

  “You’re right, Hankie. That wouldn’t be . . . pfffft . . . funny at all. Hee hee.”

  “Are you laughing?”

  “It’s a backward laugh, Hankie. It means that this is not . . . tee hee . . . funny at all.”

  “Oh. Good. You know, Pete, if this works out, I may find a little job for you in the Security Division. We could start you out working a couple of days a week, sweeping floors and hauling trash. How does that sound?”

  For some reason, he couldn’t speak. Maybe the thought of working with the Security Division had just overwhelmed him, and I could understand that. I mean, how many cats get such a great opportunity?

  “Okay, Pete, we’ve got a Go for the mission. Stay alert and I’ll see you on the other side.”

  “Pffft . . . hee ha . . . pffffft!”

  You know, cats make odd sounds sometimes. They’re strange, even the good ones.

  Chapter Seven: Conned by a Cat

  Pete loosened up his claws, I mean, he looked like a professional safecracker or something. This cat was good. He slid the bolt and lifted the door. I crawled through the opening.

  It was pretty small, you know, just right for a chicken but small for a dog with enormous shoulders. Once inside, I rose to my feet and listened. Not a sound. Okay, a few sounds: the regular breathing patterns of twenty-eight chickens and an occasional snore.

  Did you know that chickens snore in their sleep? I can’t say that I knew it, and for good reason. I had spent very little time in the company of sleeping chickens.

  I reached for the microphone of my mind and made one last check-in. “Lunar Module to base, how does everything look out there, over?”

  “Just swell, Hankie, except for one small problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s the door, Hankie.”

  “What about the door?”

  “Well, I’m having a little trouble holding it open.”

  That sent a jolt down my spine. “What? Hold it open! Do you copy?”

  “But Hankie, it’s heavy and I’m getting bored.”

  I felt the blood rushing to my face, causing my eyes to bulge outward. “Moron, I don’t care if you’re getting . . .” The words died in my throat. I cut my eyes from side to side as new and terrible thoughts began marching across the parade ground of my mind. “Hey Pete, we need to talk.”

  “No we don’t, Hankie.”

  “Yes, we do. This afternoon, we had a little argument, remember? We exchanged a few, well, harsh words, and I, uh, ran you up a tree. Listen, pal, I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “Uh-huh. Me too, Hankie, all afternoon.”

  “Right, and it’s becoming clear that I might have . . . well, come across a little too strong. Abrasive.”

  “Rude and unfriendly?”

  “Exactly, Pete, and . . . well, it’s bothering me. I mean, we dogs sometimes do and say things that we later regret. Pete, I’m experiencing some . . . some remorse for my rude behavior. No kidding.”

  “Heavy remorse?”

  “Oh yes, definitely. It’s really, uh, pressing down on my spirit.”

  There was a moment of eerie silence. “Does that mean you’re sorry?”

  I flinched on that word. I mean, it hurt like a cactus spine in the foot. “That’s getting close, Pete, but could we choose a different word? To be honest, I have a problem saying ‘I’m sorry.’”

  “Poor doggie.”

  “Right. See, I’ve always found it hard to say it out loud.”

  “Mmmm. To anyone, Hankie, or just to cats?”

  I paused to think about my response. I knew this would be crucial. “To everyone, Pete, but es­pecially to cats. I guess it’s kind of irrational, but . . . ha ha . . . it’s the truth. It has something to do with being a dog, I guess.”

  “I guess it does. Well, Hankie, let me suggest another word.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Pete, I knew we could work this out.”

  “Let me suggest . . . dumb.”

  “Huh? Dumb? Did I hear you right?”

  “Dumb. You had your chance and you blew it.”

  The door slammed shut. The bolt slid into place. I rushed to the door and pushed. It didn’t move. Pete had . . .

  My mouth was suddenly very dry. Behind me in the darkness, several chickens clucked. I spoke to the closed door.

  “Hey Pete, let’s back up and start all over again. Okay, I’ve thought it over and I’m ready to say, ‘I’m sorry.’ Pete, are you listening? Hello?” No response. I leaped to the door and began banging on it with my paws. “Traitor! Open this door and let me out of here!”

  I was trapped.

  I slumped to the floor and blinked my eyes, trying to absorb the calamity that had just fallen upon me. I had trusted the treacherous, scheming little snake, and now he had . . .

  The clucking of the chickens grew louder, and in the gloomy half-light, I could see them standing up on their nests, staring at me with big chicken eyes. I could tell that they wondered what . . . well, what a dog was doing inside their chicken house . . . after dark.

  My mind was racing. I had to do something, and fast!

  I struggled to my feet, gave the chickens a smile of greatest sincerity, and spoke in a soothing voice.

  “Hi there. My name’s Joey and I’m going to be your tour guide. You may not believe this, but we’re riding in a bus. See, you all signed up for our annual Fall Foliage Tour and, well, I’m here to see that you have a wonderful time. Ha ha.”

  Were they buying my story? It was hard to say. Chickens look stupid, no matter what they’re doing, and these birds fit the pattern. But at least they weren’t squawking and flapping their wings.

  I mushed on. Walking slowly down the aisle, I pointed to the north wall. “Out this window, we see several groves of chinaberry trees, sometimes called the western soapberry. They are native to our area and they’re always the first to turn golden yellow in the fall. Aren’t they lovel
y?”

  The chickens looked toward the blank wall, then back to me. I had no idea where this was going, but I had to keep talking until I could come up with a better plan.

  I pointed to the south wall. “And out this window, we see our most graceful tree, the cottonwood. Fall in the Texas Panhandle wouldn’t be the same without our cottonwoods. When their leaves begin to turn, when we hear the honking of geese and cranes overhead, we know that winter isn’t far behind.”

  Just then a clap of thunder grumbled outside. Lousy luck! The chickens exchanged looks of alarm and began muttering. I had to act fast. “Uh . . . the show’s up here, folks, eyes this way, please! Thank you. I’m sure you have many questions, and I’d be glad to answer them.”

  A scowling rooster at the rear raised his wing. It was J.T. Cluck, and he said, “You’re name ain’t Joey, pooch, and this ain’t a bus.”

  I tried to swallow the poisonous taste in my mouth. The tension was rising. They were all staring at me, waiting to hear what I would say.

  “Great point, J.T., very perceptive. Okay, we’re not actually on a foliage tour and you’re right, this isn’t your average tour bus. Ha ha. It’s not a bus at all and you’ve probably figured out that I’m your Head of Ranch Security.”

  Someone in the audience yelled, “We knew this wasn’t a bus. You didn’t fool us!”

  I tried to calm them with a gentle laugh. “Ha ha. Listen, would you believe that I’m actually here on a secret mission?”

  I held my breath and waited for their response. It came in a loud chorus. “NO!”

  “All right, let’s cut to the bottom line. I blundered in here by mistake and a scheming little cat locked the door. I would like nothing better than to get out of here and leave you in peace. Is there another exit?”

  The chickens muttered and clucked among themselves, while I listened to the pounding of my heart. At last, their eyes swung back to me, and J.T. said, “Pooch, we’ve just figured it out. We’ve got a dog in our chicken house!”

  My spirits dropped like a chunk of cement. “Right, and what we need to do is remain calm.”

  What a joke. Remain calm? Suddenly the room erupted in wild shrieks and hysterical clucking, as chickens flapped their wings, flew into walls, fainted, and screeched like . . . I don’t know what. Like a room full of hysterical, brainless chickens who had gone berserk over nothing. Idiot birds.