The Case of the Wandering Goats. John R. Erickson

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      I shot a glance at Slim. His mouth fell open and his eyes did too. Those were alarming signs. Just to be on the safe side, I scrambled away from the door and took refuge…that is, I set up a defensive position behind Slim’s chair, where I could monitor the situation and fire off a few barks if necessary.

      The stranger spoke. “Did I come at a bad time?”

      “Bobby, whenever you show up is a bad time.”

      Hold everything. Bobby? That name had a familiar ring around the bathtub. A familiar ring, let us say. I had heard it before and maybe I knew the guy: Chief Deputy Bobby Kile. Remember him? You need to pay attention.

      Okay, I knew him pretty well and we’d even worked some crinimal cases together. Remember the Case of the Monkey Burglar? We worked that one as a team and sent a crook to the slammer.

      Wait, hold everything and check this out: monkey burglar and monkey pirates. Was this some kind of clue? No, never mind. Skip it.

      Anyway, here he was—Deputy Kile, that is, not a monkey—standing in the door of Slim’s shack at seven o’clock in the morning. And did I mention that he was holding some kind of big cooking pot? He was. What was going on around here?

      Slim must have been wondering the same thing. “Well, you might as well come in. What’s in the pot?”

      “Lamb’s quarter greens. We have a bunch of it growing in the shipping pens. My wife picked some and made a batch for you. She worries that you’ll get scurvy, living alone out here in the Wild West.”

      Slim laughed. “Scurvy. Never even considered it. Set it in the kitchen.”

      Deputy Kile went into the kitchen and left the pot on the table. At that point, I noticed an important detail: he had a wad of chewing gum stuck to the seat of his pants. A dog notices those little details.

      He came back into the living room and stared at Slim. “You dress like this all the time?”

      “I wasn’t expecting company at seven o’clock in the morning. When you show up without an appointment, you get what you deserve.”

      “Most of the people I know have already done half a day’s work by seven o’clock. What’s wrong with your legs?”

      “Nothing’s wrong with my legs.”

      “They’re pale, don’t look natural, and awful skinny.”

      “I use ‘em for walking around and they work just fine.”

      “What’s that you’re eating?”

      “Turkey neck. I buy ‘em ten pounds at a time and boil ‘em up. They’re better than you think. There’s three more in the ice box if you want one.”

      The deputy made a sour face. “No thanks.” He sat down in a chair and I went over to say hello. He rubbed me on the ears. “Morning, Hank.” He glanced around the room. “Boy, times have really changed.”

      “What is that supposed to mean?”

      “When I was a kid, going to the movies on Saturday, we never saw Roy and Gene dragging around the bunk house in their shorts. Back then, a cowboy was a hero, an example for the youth of America. It’s kind of sad, the way things have gone downhill.”

      Slim nibbled on his breakfast. “You know, I was thinking the same thing about law enforcement. Back when Marshall Dillon was in charge of things, average tax-paying citizens never had to worry about a deputy banging on the door at seven o’clock in the morning. Bobby, what are you doing here?”

      “I brought you a pot of greens. I thought you might be grateful.”

      “Bobby, what are you doing here? And you can skip the fluff.”

      The deputy’s eyes roamed the ceiling. “I had a little favor to ask.”

      “That’s what I figured. What?”

      “How much do you know about goats?”

      Slim gnawed the meat off another vertebra. “Hank, heads up.” He flipped it in my direction and we’re talking about a long shot, all the way across the room. I snagged it. Yes! Slim was pleased. “That dog ought to be playing college basketball. I don’t know anything about goats and it makes me a happy that I don’t. If I had to learn about goats, it would take brain space away from more important things. Why?”

      “There’s twelve head of ‘em running a-loose on the creek.”

      “How’d you know that?”

      “At 5:06 this morning, I got a call from your future daddy-in-law.”

      “Woodrow? Heh. He can’t sleep past five o’clock, so he calls people.”

      “He said he had a herd of goats in his yard and they were eating Rose Ella’s flowers. He and Viola tried to pen ‘em, but they scattered.”

      Slim stared at him. “Good honk. Who owns goats around here?”

      “The ag teacher bought ‘em for the FFA kids at school. Something spooked ‘em in the night. They tore down the pen and headed south. They’re worth some money. They’re show goats.”

      Slim gave that some thought. “I saw that movie when I was a kid, had some good songs in it. No, that was ‘Show Boat.’” Deputy Kile groaned and shook his head. “But the point is that I’ve got work to do on the ranch. Remember back when you had an honest job? You had to get things done and earn your wages.”

      “I’ve already cleared it with your boss. He said getting you off the ranch for a day will improve everything.”

      “Sounds like something he’d say.”

      “I’ll have to deputize you. Raise your right hand.” Slim’s right hand was holding the stub of a turkey neck and he didn’t raise it. “Do you solemnly swear?”

      “No.”

      “Too bad. You’re in the County Militia. Here’s your badge.” He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a plastic badge, and pitched it to Slim. He caught it with his left hand and looked at it.

      “Bobby, you ain’t funny. I’ve told you that before.”

      The deputy laughed. “It came out of a box of cereal, but here’s the deal. The school board wants the goats back and I need some help. And, frankly, you owe me.”

      “How do you figure that?”

      “That day in the winter when your wheat pasture steers showed up on the golf course. Remember that? Your dog stole a hamburger from a lady at the Dixie Dog drive-in and the dogcatcher was fixing to haul him to the pound. Who bailed you out of that deal?”

      “Maybe.”