Wagons West Page 4

  “It’s Slim.”

  “We’re going into Red Alert. Repeat, Red Alert. Form a line, load up Anti-Monster Barks, and go straight into Code Three Procedures.”

  “It’s Slim.”

  “On my signal, we will lay down a barrage of…what did you say?”

  “It’s Slim.”

  I whirled around and gave him a blistering glare. “Are you nuts? I know Slim. I know him very well. I’ve stayed at his house, slept in his bed, eaten his mackerel sandwiches, and drunk water from his commode. That is not Slim!”

  “He’s wearing a bandana over his face, is all.”

  “This has nothing to do with bananas, and I advise you to wipe that monkey grin off your face.”

  He pointed a paw and widened his silly grin. “Look.”

  I looked in the direction his paw was pointing and…huh?

  Okay, we can relax and call off the Red Alert. You won’t believe this. In fact, I don’t want to talk about it. I refuse to say another word.

  Sorry. I know you’re curious, but it’s just too outrageous.

  Unbelievable.

  Shocking.

  Okay, I’ll talk about it. Do you know the difference between a ranch cowboy and a clown in the carnival? A carnival clown is actually funny, whereas your average cowboy tries to be funny but isn’t.

  It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. While I’m working eighteen hours a day, trying to run this ranch and keep it safe from whatevers, those guys lie awake at night, thinking of new ways to pull tricks on their dogs.

  Loper is bad about it, but Slim is a hundred times worse. The man has no shame. Does he actually do any work on this ranch? Does he get paid for this stuff?

  Okay, the Masked Bandit turned out to be Slim. See, he’d tied a red bandana around his face, concealing everything but his eyes, and he did something sneaky with his eyes. I’m not sure what he did, but…

  Well, what’s a dog to think? One minute we’re living in a normal world, on a working cattle ranch with two grown men who pay taxes and have the right to vote, and the next minute, they’re playing Clowns and Monsters. How am I supposed to guide the ship when we’ve got crazy people running through the control room?

  Well, as you might expect, Slim enjoyed his little moment of glory. Oh, he loved it! He pulled down the mask and revealed the rest of his face, which consisted mostly of a huge grin. “Did I fool you, pooch?”

  I held my head at a proud angle and tried to salvage a few smithers of dignity. I beamed him an icy glare that said, “If your mother could see you today, she would be so ashamed. She’d wonder why she went to all the trouble to raise you.”

  There, by George, I got him told.

  Did he get the message? Of course not. He was too busy laughing at his own stale humor—just what you’d expect.

  You know, if dogs wrote the history books, we would paint a very different picture of the American West, and let me tell you, it would raise some eyebrows.

  Just then, Loper stuck his head out the screen door and yelled, “Let’s eat! Fried chicken and smashed ‘taters.”

  Slim started toward the gate, but stopped and looked back at me. “Pooch, you’re not going to hold a grudge, are you?”

  What? Of course I was going to hold a grudge!

  “I was just funnin’.”

  Yeah, well, what’s fun for the goose is sauce for the duck.

  He patted his thigh with his right hand. “Oh, come ‘ere, let’s make up and be friends again.”

  No. He could find himself another friend. Maybe there was a skunk on the ranch who was desperate for companionship. Me? I had better things to do. No.

  “Hank, maybe I can smuggle you out some chicken bones.”

  Bribery would not…chicken bones?

  “Now, come on over here and let’s make up and be pals again.”

  Oh, all right. I swallowed my pride, marched over to him, and collected rubs on the ears and several pats on the ribs. On this outfit, it’s always the dogs who end up walking the extra mile, and do you know why? Because dogs CARE about things like loyalty and friendship.

  And so it was that Slim and I made a solemn pledge to trudge on with a friendship that he didn’t deserve, and he got my friendship at a bargain price. In this world, what else can you buy for a couple of chicken bones?

  Chapter Seven: George Eat Old Gray Rat

  The moment Slim went into the house, I whirled around and marched over to the King of Slackers. “On your feet, soldier, you’re going to the brig.”

  “Me? Gosh, I thought I was going to get a fair trial.”

  “There’s been a change of plans. The case against you is so irremuckable, we don’t need to waste time with a fair trial. Let’s go.”

  He whimpered and moaned, but I didn’t care. I had been watching his rebellious streak for months. It had started small and had grown and grown, and I couldn’t ignore it any longer.

  I hate to be severe with the men, but if we don’t nip these buds in the nipper, they’ll come back to honk us.

  I marched the prisoner down to the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex. In silence, we rode the elevator up to the twelfth floor—silence, except for his sniffles and whimpers, which I ignored. When the blast-proof door slid open, I led him to his dingy cell and pointed toward the southeast angle-iron leg of the gas tanks.

  “You know the routine. Put your nose in the corner.”

  “Oh drat. For how long?”

  “That depends on your attitude. It could take days or weeks. Lately, your attitude has been all over the map.”

  “Gosh, maybe you could show me the map. I think it would help.”

  “We don’t have a map.”

  “We could pretend.”

  I gave that some thought. “I suppose we could. Sure. The imagination is a powerful tool and we should use it to improve our behavior.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I want more than anything, to behave my improver.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, son.”

  “Thanks, and here’s an idea. We can pretend that it’s a map of the United Steaks of America.”

  “The United Steaks?”

  “Yeah, ‘cause we both love steak.”

  My tongue shot out and swept across my lips. “Interesting point. We both love steak and the love of knowledge is the beginning of education.”

  “Yeah, and we’d rather eat a steak than a state.”

  “Excellent point. Just think of chewing all those trees.”

  “Yeah, and flag poles. Every state has a flag pole.”

  “I think you’re onto something.” I moved to the front of the room and pulled down a huge map of the United Steaks. I tapped my pointer on several spots and plunged into my lecture. “Over here, we have Teebonia, named for the famous steak with a bone in the shape of a T.”

  “Tee hee. They’re great.”

  “I agree. They’re amazing. And over here on the other coast, we have another steak—not the most popular, but still a good, solid choice: Sirloinia.”

  “Yes sir!”

  “And here in the middle, we have Ribeyesylvania. It doesn’t have a bone, but make no bones about it, the meat is delicious.” There was a moment of silence. “That was a joke, a little humor to liven up our unit on geography.”

  He gave me a blank stare. “I guess I missed it.”

  “I said, a rib eye steak has no bone to chew, but make no bones about it, the meat is…never mind. It’s probably over your head.”

  “Yeah, I’m kind of short.”

  “Exactly. The point we want to take home from this lecture is that geography doesn’t have to be a dull and boring subject.”

  “Yeah, and you’re a great teacher.”

  “Well, thank you. I appreciate…why are you grinning?”

  “
I just thought of something. You’re a great teacher, but I’ll bet you can’t spell ‘geography’.”

  “Of course I can: jeff-ee-o-graff-graff-y.”

  He wagged his head from side to side. “Nope, that’s wrong.”

  “All right, it’s wrong. I teach, but that doesn’t mean I can spell. Geography is a huge word, very difficult. No dog in this world could spell it.”

  “I can.”

  I paced over to him and looked down into his face. “You? You think you can spell ‘geography’? That’s crazy.”

  “Bet me?”

  “Drover, I never take unfair advantage of my students.”

  “The loser has to stand with his nose in the corner for thirty minutes.”

  “The loser has to…ha ha…this is beyond ridiculous.” I paced a few steps away. The runt had caught me by surprise and I wasn’t sure…I paced back to him. “Okay, pal, you started this. Let’s take it all the way to the finish line. Go for it. Spell ‘geography.’”

  He sat down, wiggled his stub tail, and squeezed his face into a wad of wrinkles. “George…Eat…Old…Gray…Rat…At…Poppa’s…House…Yesterday.”

  “Yes? And so what? I don’t care about George or what he ate. Spell the word.”

  “I just did, hee hee. You take the first letter of each word and put ‘em together: G-E-O-G-R-A-P-H-Y. Geography. Are you proud of me?”

  Huh?

  We don’t need to go into all the details, but let me state for the record that I wasn’t proud of him. He had used a sneaky trick against one of the few friends he had left in the world, and I, being a trusting soul, had taken the bait.

  But let me also hasten to point out that I’m a Dog of My Word. I honor my pledges and pay off my gambling debts, no matter how badly it hurts. And you talk about HURT! You can’t imagine the pain I felt when I crept up to that angle-iron leg of the gas tanks, leaned forward, and stuck my nose into the corner.

  Nothing in my career with the Security Division had prepared me for such a humildewed experience…such a humilifying experience…such a humiliation, let us say. It was awful. For thirty eternal minutes, I stood there, rubbing a sore on the end of my nose, while Drover hid in some weeds nearby and giggled like a monkey.

  I couldn’t see the wretch, but I could hear him. “Hee hee hee! I can’t believe this. Hank’s standing with his nose in the corner! Tee hee hee.”

  That really cut me to the crick. I mean, you put your heart and soul into helping your men and…phooey.

  The good news is that I emerged from the experience a stronger dog, a wiser dog, a dog who had learned a valuable lesson about…something, and it was a very valuable lesson.

  The better news was that, at the end of my thirty minutes of torture, Slim came out of the house and yelled, “Hank, come ‘ere! Chicken bones!”

  I left the dungeon and went sprinting to the yard gate. By the time Slim got there, I was sitting and waiting, a patient, loyal dog, ready to receive his Chicken Bone Reward.

  He opened the gate and held up something wrapped up in a paper napkin. “Are we pals again?”

  Oh yes, pals forever!

  “Can you catch a bone in the air?”

  Does a dog have fleas?

  “We’ll see.” He lifted a chicken leg-bone out of the napkin and held it up. “Okay, pooch, jump-ball.”

  Bring it on!

  He pitched it up into the air. I launched myself and snagged the bone, crunched it up, and rammed it down. Hark, cough, arg! Got a little particle hung in my throat but…hark, gag…sometimes when we eat too fast, we eat too fast.

  But I’m no quitter. I cleared the pipes and lined up for the second jump-ball, this time a thigh-bone. It wasn’t quite as big or as good as the drumstick, but, by George, I snagged it out of the sky and crunched it up.

  Slim watched with a smile. “You do good work, pooch. I guess we’ll be pals forever, and I don’t have to feel guilty about scaring you out of your drawers.”

  Right, no problem. Two chicken bones had saved our friendship, and I didn’t wear drawers. But let me point out that I hadn’t been totally fooled by that business of the Masked Bandit. I had recognized his boots, see, and…well, it’s always better to err on the side of caution, right? You bet.

  Loper came out on the porch, followed by Little Alfred. They said goodbye and Loper said, “Help your mom and be a good boy, hear?” The kid bobbed his head and said he would, then Loper joined Slim at the gate. “Well, back to the field. Radio says the rain chances are looking good.”

  “Sure would be a good day for a nap.”

  “Sleep on the tractor.”

  “What if I fall off and get run over?”

  “I’ve always thought you’d make good fertilizer. You’re not good for much else.”

  Slim laughed. “You know, when I hired onto this outfit, somebody said it was going to be a cowboy job.”

  “Naw. That was just bait for the gullible.”

  “It sure was. Nobody said a word about driving a piece-of-junk tractor fourteen hours a day. That thing’s so noisy, I’m going deaf.”

  “Wear ear plugs.”

  “I ain’t got any.”

  “Spit wads work fine.”

  “Made out of what?”

  “A bolt sack.”

  “What about my chapped lips?”

  “You’ve got a grease gun.”

  “My lips are so raw, I can’t hardly smile.”

  “Good. The boss always worries when the hired hands are smiling. You drive.” Loper went to the passenger-side of the pickup.

  “How come?”

  “I’m going to take a nap on the way to the field. You can blabber all you want and I won’t hear a thing.”

  Slim shook his head and climbed behind the wheel. “Loper, if they ever did heart surgery on you, they’d find a lead brick. They’d have to cut into it with a diamond-tipped saw.”

  He started the pickup and off they went to the field. Slim was still talking, but Loper stuck his fingers in his ears, scooted down in the seat, and closed his eyes.

  Well! At last we had some peace and quiet. I mean, those two could go on like that for hours at a time, yapping at each other and never solving anything. But the silence didn’t last long. Just as the pickup disappeared, I heard Sally May’s voice calling from inside the house.

  “Alfred? Honey, it’s time for your nap.”

  I turned and looked at the boy. I expected to see a big frown on his face, because…well, he hated naps. But this time, he flashed a mysterious little grin, winked at me and said, “I’ll see you in a little bit. We’re gonna eggsplore!”

  Hmm. I had a feeling that this might lead us into troubled waters, so to speak, but I had no idea…well, you’ll see. We ended up in troubled waters For Real.

  Keep reading.

  Chapter Eight: I Have No Use For A Nap

  I understand why kids hate naps. There’s so much to do in the world, so many things going on out there, and so little time to do them before the sun goes down, yet after lunch, in the middle of the day, they have to stop everything, go to their rooms, lie down, and sleep for an hour.

  What a bummer. Yes, I understand these kids and I pretty muchly have the same opinion about nap-taking. I have no use for a nap in the middle of the day.

  On the other hand…well, it’s a little different when you’re Head of Ranch Security. We spend most of our time at the top of the mountain, don’t you see, and you know how it is up there: high altitude, thin air, low levels of carbon diego, and the crushing weight of responsibility that never ends.

  Just think about it. We have to put up with mouthy cats and people who don’t understand the kind of work we do. Half the time, they’re yelling at us and chasing us with brooms, and the other half, they’re playing silly tricks on us.

  Then we have to wo
rry about the staff. When you have employees, it’s like living in a house infested with mice. You walk out of the room and they start taking the place apart. I won’t mention any names.

  Yes I will. Drover. Remember that deal about spelling “geography”? It was crooked from the start. The little mutt couldn’t even spell “cat,” but he’d schemed a way of luring me into a trap, see, and the longer I thought about it, the thoughter it made me.

  You might have missed this little detail, but our whole purpose for going down to the gas tanks had been to stick HIS nose in the corner, but somehow he managed to…

  Phooey. The point is that all this stuff wears on a dog, drags him down, and warpens his spirit, and once in a great while, the thought of taking a nap in the middle of the day seems…well, not so bad.

  In fact, there are times when a dog mutts realize that he can swerve his ranch bets when he turks care of his snork…takes care of his health. And getting adequate skonk is a very impecking park of the piddle. An important part of the process.

  Sorry, I’m getting a little drowsy.

  Anyway, I really hated the idea of putting my sniggle…pudding my schedule on hold for an hour, but I marched my snickerdoodles…I marched myself down to the office, turned off all the phones, and curled up on my gummy snick bug…my gunny sack bed.

  The ranch needed for me to get my rest. No kidding.

  Wow, what a great bed! That gunny sack and I had been through some hard times and we had become the bonk of friends. Within smeckonds, I dribbled out on the snee of calm molasses and purple zebras floated past in rubber tubbies. Honking sassafras twerping turnip tops and murgle skiffer pork chop snizzle whurping saw horses in the whooping crane palace, while George ate old gray rats at poppa’s house yesterday.

  Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  My first clue that I wasn’t standing in the Whooping Crane Palace came when I heard…was that a voice? Yes, a voice, calling my name.

  “Hank? You’d better wake up.”

  With great effort, I began cranking up the shade on my left eye. I saw…gee, this was strange…I saw a purple zebra floating past in a rubber tubby. No, wait, it might have been a dog. Yes, a smallish dog with a ridiculous stub tail.