The Case of the Swirling Killer Tornado Read online

  First, she switched on the light—not once but several times—and nothing happened. I mean, no light came on. It appeared that the storm had knocked out the electricity.

  Second, the phone continued to ring—a third ring, then a fourth—until at last she found the receiver.

  Then, in a sleepy voice, she said, “Hello? Who is this? Do you know what time it is? Uh-huh. Then what . . . oh. Ohhhhhh. Oh my goodness. Yes, right away. I hope you’ll be all right, and thanks for calling.”

  She hung up the phone. By this time, Loper had gotten up and wandered out into the middle of the house, somewhere close to where Sally May was located.

  His voice sounded pretty croaky. “Now what? This place is like trying to sleep in downtown Amarillo.”

  “That was Slim. He just got a call from the sheriff’s office in town. We’re under a tornado warning. There’s one on the ground and heading our way. Everyone on the creek is supposed to take cover.”

  “Wow, that woke me up. Okay, hon, we’d better head for the cellar. You grab Molly and a blanket. Where’s the flashlight?”

  “In the top drawer, where it’s supposed to be.”

  Loper’s feet shuffled across the kitchen floor. “Dadgum, there’s that water again.” He opened the drawer and felt around inside. “Hon, it’s gone.”

  “It was there just yesterday.”

  “It’s gone now.”

  “I’m not ABOUT to go into that musty cellar without a flashlight. There’s no telling what might be down there.”

  Just then, guess who came out of his bedroom, walking in the beam of the missing flashlight.

  “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. Are ya wooking for the fwashwight?”

  There was a moment of silence. Then, Loper said, “Why, yes, we were, and one of these days I’d like to hear the story of how you happen to be walking around in the middle of the night with it, but not now.”

  Loper took the flashlight and started giving orders. Alfred was to get his blankie and pillow. (In Kid Language, “blankie” means blanket.) Sally May was to gather up Baby Molly while he, Loper, would open several windows and dig a couple of raincoats out of the closet. And everyone was supposed to wear shoes, since they would be walking across weeds and stickers, plus waterdogs, snakes, lizards, and whatever else might be lurking in the darkness.

  Moments later, they had all gathered in the kitchen. From my hiding place under the table, I could see their feet and ankles. (The flashlight was on, see.)

  Loper spoke in a voice that was soft but firm. “Everybody here? When we get outside, join hands and stay together. Let’s go, y’all.”

  And with that, they left the house and went out into the stormy night. The last thing I heard before the door closed behind them was Sally May’s comment, “What on earth happened to my screen door! Just wait ’til I get hold of those dogs!”

  Gulp.

  Oh yes, and then Little Alfred whispered, “Bye, doggies. Good wuck.”

  Good wuck indeed. We would need several truck­loads of it.

  Chapter Nine: We Hear the Roar of the Hurricane

  They were gone. We were left alone in the eerie silence of the house. Off in another room, I could hear a clock ticking.

  I hoped it was a clock ticking. If it wasn’t a clock, then it was something worse, and right then I didn’t want to speculate on what it might be.

  I mean, when a guy finds himself alone in a big empty house, he begins to hear odd little sounds and his imagination starts playing tricks on him.

  We sure didn’t need any of that. Our deal was looking bad enough without any extras.

  I moved myself out from under the table, out into the middle of the kitchen floor, and began pacing. My mind seems to work better when I pace. Have I ever mentioned that? Maybe not.

  I began pacing. “Well, Drover, this situation has gone from bad to worse. First, we got ourselves lured into the house by a bratty little boy. Then we almost got caught. And now we’ve been abandoned in the midst of a storm.”

  “Yeah, and I’m fixing to turn into a cat!”

  I stopped pacing. “What?”

  “I’m fixing to turn into a cat. I can feel it happening already, ’cause I feel more like I do right now than I did a while ago.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You said I was going to turn into a cat ’cause I ate your bacon. And I think it’s starting to happen.”

  “Oh, that. Forget it, Drover, we’ve got much bigger problems to think about.”

  He was starting to cry. “My mom’s going to be so disappointed! The last thing she said when I left home was, ‘Drover, be a good little dog.’ She never wanted a cat for a son, and now look what I’ve done!”

  “I tried to warn you.”

  “I know you did. You’ve been a good friend and I wish I’d never tasted raw bacon.”

  “Yes, it’s almost ruined you. On the other hand, we might try the cure.”

  “The cure?” He came padding out from under the table. “You mean . . .”

  “Exactly. The same team of brilliant scientists who discovered the link between bacon and Cat­tination, those same guys came up with a cure. Didn’t I mention that?”

  “No, I didn’t know about it.” He began hopping up and down. “Oh Hank, tell me about it, let me be cured. I’ll be a good dog for the rest of my life, honest I will!”

  “Hmmm.” I paced a few steps away, paused a moment to think, then turned back to Drover. “Okay, I’ll do it, just this once and not because you deserve it, because you don’t.”

  “I know. I was a rat.”

  “You really were, Drover.”

  “And a pig. I was a terrible pig for hogging all the bacon. I was a pig-hog.”

  “You certainly were.”

  “But that’s all behind me now. No more bacon for me. I’m a changed dog.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, son. It renews my hope in . . . you know, we really don’t have time to dis­cuss your personal problems.”

  “Oh my gosh. What are we going to do?”

  “I’m not sure. I was hoping you might have some ideas.”

  “Well, let’s get me cured, before I turn into a cat.”

  “Oh yes, the cure. Here’s the deal. Roll over three times and repeat the, uh, curative words. Let’s see,

  “Piggy bacon, wrongly taken.

  Piggy ways are now forsaken.”

  “I think I can do it, Hank! Watch this.” He rolled over three times and said the, uh, magic curative words. Then he leaped to his feet and gave himself a shake. “There, I did it and I’m so happy! I don’t feel like a cat any more.”

  “Great, Drover, I’m happy for you. Oh, one last part of the cure: I get all the supper scraps for a week.”

  “Sure, Hank, that’s the least I can do.”

  He hopped and skipped with joy. I watched him and felt a glow of, well, fatherly pleasure, you might say. Helping others through difficult situations has always . . .

  Huh? All at once my thoughts were pulled away from good deeds and helping others, as I suddenly realized that (a) the wind had stopped blowing; (b) the rain had stopped falling; (c) the air seemed thick and heavy.

  A spooky calmness had moved through the house, across the ranch, perhaps across the entire world.

  “Drover, do you notice anything odd?”

  “Well, let’s see. We’re dogs and we’re in the house where the people stay, but all the people went outside where the dogs stay. That seems kind of odd to me.”

  “Yes, but I mean the air.”

  “Oh.” He sniffed the air. “Yeah, it smells like two wet dogs and I guess that’s odd.”

  “Wrong again, Drover. All at once the air is still and heavy, and those are symptoms of a hurricane. Are you familiar with hurricanes?”

  “I thought they sa
id ‘tornado.’”

  “No, a tornado has never struck this valley. We’ve already discussed that. It must be a hurricane. Do you know about hurricanes?”

  “Well . . . not really.”

  “A huge swirling wind, Drover, one of the most destructive storms in all of nature. It can pick up trees, cars, houses, even dogs, and carry them to who-knows-where.”

  Lightning twinkled outside and in its spooky silver light I saw Drover’s eyes. They had grown to the size of pies.

  “Oh my gosh, I had just started feeling safe ’cause Sally May left the house, but now you’re telling me . . .”

  “I’m telling you that hurricanes are even more dangerous than Sally May when she’s mad.”

  “Oh my gosh!”

  “And we’re in grave danger.”

  “Oh, this leg is killing me!”

  My teeth were beginning to chatter. My legs were quivering. The air was so heavy now, I could hardly breathe. “Drover, we’ve got to get out of here. But how?”

  “Yeah, but how?”

  “Good question.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I found myself pacing again, as I tried to focus all my powers of concentration on this problem which seemed to have no solution. I mean, we were locked inside a house, right?

  I thought and thought and thought, and also paced and paced and paced. Nothing. It wasn’t working.

  “Drover, we’re cooked.”

  “Yeah, and I’m not even hungry.”

  I stopped pacing and whirled around to face him. “Yes, because you ate two pieces of my bacon, you little sneak, and . . . why did you mention food? I was talking about something else.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I guess I’m so scared, I’m liable to say anything. I think you said something about . . . somebody was cooking supper . . . I think.”

  “Hmmm. That doesn’t ring any bells.”

  Suddenly a bell rang . . . the telephone again, perhaps the sheriff’s department calling to . . .

  Drover jumped. “Oh my gosh, there’s one now!”

  “Yes, and it’s all come back to me. I had just said, ‘We’re cooked, Drover,’ because we are now trapped between Sally May and a deadly swirling hurricane.”

  “Oh my gosh, oh my leg, I’m going to jump out a window and get out of here!”

  He left the kitchen and went streaking into the living room. “I’m afraid that won’t work, Drover. We would be cut to pieces on the glass, so I’d advise you not to . . .”

  I heard a thump, then . . . his voice. “I did it, Hank, I made it through the window and now I’m outside!”

  I hurried into the living room, toward the sound of his voice. “That’s impossible, Drover. I didn’t hear the crash of broken glass. You see, windows are made of window glass, therefore . . .”

  “Yeah, but the window was open and I knocked the screen off and here I am, outside. Are you proud of me?”

  Hmmmm. It appeared that this thing needed, uh, further study. I went streaking to the so-called window and found . . . by George, there was an open window in the living room, and it appeared that someone or something had . . . well, removed the screen, so to speak.

  “Okay, Drover, relax. The pieces of the puzzle are falling into place. You’re probably wondering why that window happened to be open, aren’t you?”

  “Not really.”

  “I mean, why would anyone open a window in the midst of a rainstorm? Most dogs would never figger that one out, Drover, but I happen to know the answer.”

  “You may know the answer but I’m outside the house!”

  “Hush, Drover, I’m about to tie this all together. You see, Loper opened several windows. That’s what you’re supposed to do when a hurricane is coming. Can you tell me why?”

  “Hank, these clouds look awful. They’re green.”

  “Let me finish. When a hurricane is coming, Drover, you open one window to let it in and a second window to let it out. That’s why Loper opened the windows, don’t you see, and that explains why.”

  “Hank, I hear something roaring.”

  “Huh? Roaring, you say?”

  “Yeah.” We were quiet for a moment, and . . . by George, I seemed to hear a certain . . . well, roaring sound. “Hank, do hurricanes bark or growl?”

  “I don’t think so. In other words, no.”

  “Do they roar?”

  That roar was getting LOUDER.

  “Drover, we may need to cut this lesson short and . . . yikes, maybe I’d better get out of here!”

  And with that, I went flying through the open window.

  Chapter Ten: Okay, Maybe It Was a Tornado

  You’re probably wondering why Little Alfred had parked his stupid tricycle right under that window. I wondered that myself.

  It was very careless of him. I mean, suppose the house had caught fire and members of his family had been jumping out the windows. Someone might have landed smack in the middle of his stupid two-bit tricycle, just as I did, and gotten a handlebar in the rib cage, just as I did.

  Did it hurt? You bet it did.

  Kids are supposed to park their tricycles on the porch, not under windows and fire escapes and emergency exits, but the most annoying part of this was that Drover had jumped out the same window only seconds before and . . .

  How do you explain that?

  He’s so lucky, he doesn’t need brains.

  I limped around for a moment, trying to jumpstart my hearts and lung. It was that serious. At last, I got ’em going again and turned a steely gaze on Mister Ate My Bacon.

  “You might have warned me that I was about to dive into the middle of a killer tricycle!”

  “Well, I was so worried about the hurricane that I didn’t think about it.”

  I stuck my nose right in his face. “Drover, if a dog gets killed on a tricycle, he doesn’t need to worry about a hurricane, does he?”

  “I never thought about that.”

  “Well, think about it. The answer is no.”

  “No what?”

  “No. Just plain ordinary NO. That is the answer.”

  “Yeah, but I forgot the question.”

  Hmmmm. I too had forgotten the question, and all at once it didn’t seem terribly important anyway, so . . . phooey.

  Suddenly I heard something in the distance. I cocked one ear and listened. “Shhhh. Do you hear something?”

  “Yeah, it’s that same roar.”

  “Ah yes, the roar. It’s quite a loud roar, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. You don’t reckon it’s a train, do you?”

  “I don’t think so, Drover. I’ve never seen a train on this ranch.”

  “Slim trains horses.”

  “Good point. Maybe we’d better run up to the top of the hill and check it out.”

  And so it was that we left the yard, climbed over the fence, and went streaking out into the home pasture, until we reached a spot some fifty years north of the machine shed.

  Yards, I should say, fifty yards. There, we were away from trees and buildings and other objects that blocked our view, and we established a For­ward Observation Post.

  Right away, we put our tail-ends together and began scanning the surrounding country. I surveyed the country east of us, while Drover took the western side.

  “All right, Drover, tell me what you see.”

  “Well . . . it’s awful dark.”

  “That checks out. Go on.”

  “I see . . . a lot of darkness, and some lightning, but more darkness than lightning.”

  “Exactly. Same over here. Any sign of a train?”

  “Nope, no trains.”

  “Hmmm, yes, same over here. But I still hear that roaring noise. How about you?”

  He cocked his ear a
nd listened. “Yeah, there it is, off to the southwest, and it’s getting louder.”

  “Right. We’re getting the same readings on my end. Any sign of Loper and Sally May?”

  “Nope. I don’t see anyone, but I’m not surprised ’cause they went somewhere to make a big cattle trade.”

  I was silent for a moment, as I ran that comment through my data banks. “Cattle trade? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, the phone rang, remember? And then they all left the house, remember? And Loper said they were going to talk to the seller, and I just . . .”

  “One moment, Drover. You assumed that this guy was trying to sell them some cattle, but I must warn you that we deal in facts, not assumptions.”

  “Oh darn, I goofed again.”

  “Yes, but don’t get discouraged. You were right about the ‘seller’ part, so let’s go back to that clue and see if we can pick up the trail.”

  “Okay, but I wonder what that funnel-looking thing is over there.”

  “The one clue we have is (a) a mysterious phone call in the middle of the night; and (b) an equally mysterious salesman who was selling something.”

  “It looks pretty big.”

  “Actually, Drover, we have two clues, not one, so things are moving right along. We’ll have this little mystery knocked out in no time at all.”

  “Gosh, that thing looks green.”

  “Everything greens up after a rain, son, the grass, the trees . . .”

  “I don’t think it’s a tree.”

  “Well, what do you expect? Everything can’t be a tree. If everything were a tree, we’d have no dogs. Now, as I was saying, we have a salesman, calling in the middle of the night, and the question we must answer is this: What was he selling?”

  “A funnel?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Nobody sells funnels in the middle of the night, and besides, you’ve already guessed cattle.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Don’t argue with me. You guessed cattle, and the point I’m trying to make, if you will just shut your little trap and listen, the point I’m trying to impress upon you . . .”

  “Hank, that thing’s moving this way.”