Let Sleeping Dogs Lie. John R. Erickson

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СКАЧАТЬ and cried through the pipes of the doctoring chute, and suddenly I heard a crash behind me. I leaped into the air and turned to face the attack of I-knew-not-what manner of monster . . .

      . . . and realized that Slim and High Loper still hadn’t taken the time to pound two piddling galvanized nails into that dadgum piece of tin on the roof of the calf shed.

      Here we have a classic case of ranch mismanagement. How many years had that piece of tin flapped in the wind? Two? Five? Ten? Every time the wind changed directions, it banged. And every time it banged, Slim would say, “We’ll have to fix that thing one of these days,” and Loper would say, “Yup, when we get caught up.”

      And so it banged and flapped every time . . .

      . . . THE WIND CHANGED DIRECTIONS. There was my first clue. Yes, the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place. If the tin banged every time the wind changed direction, and if the tin was banging at that very moment, then it followed from simple deduction that the wind had changed directions.

      Exactly what that had to do with the murder case, I wasn’t sure, but I had a sneaking suspicion that the two were connected. The murderer was near. Somehow I had to get word to Drover.

      The wind was rising now. Off to the north, a bolt of lightning cut through the night and bathed the caprock in ghostly silver light. Then came an ominous thumber of rundle . . . uh rumber of thundle . . . rumble of thunder while the tin banged against the roof of the calf shed.

      Against the rising scream of the wind, I barked the retreat: “Drover, leave your post and come here at once!”

      There was no reply but the mocking howl of the wind.

      Dust and hay and flakes of dried manure swirled through the air, filling my eyes and mouth with dust and hay and flakes of dried manure that swirled through the air. Near blind and gasping for breath, I pitched forward.

      Lightning crackled across the sky, and in the flash I saw something that froze the blood in my veins and raised the hair on my back.

      There, standing some fifty feet in front of me, was a ghostly apparition—a glowing formless thing of pale light with deep blue holes where eyes should have been.

      This was the fiend. It had to be.

      Now, I’m no coward. I’ll fight my weight in wildcats or skunks but I hate to mess with fiends. I needed help for this job, even if that meant ex­posing my position to the fiend. I raised my head and barked against the wind.

      “Drover, can you hear me!”

      Off in the distance, I heard a faint reply. “Yes! Can you hear me?”

      “Affirmative!”

      “What?”

      “AFFIRMATIVE!”

      “WHAT?”

      “YES!”

      “Oh.” There was a throbbing silence. “What was the question?”

      “The question was,” I yelled against the wind, “can you hear me!”

      “Oh. I thought that’s what I asked you!”

      “It was. Now listen carefully.”

      “Hank, can you hear me?”

      “Of course I can hear you! That’s what we’ve been yelling about.”

      “What? Hank, can you yell? I can’t hear YOU.”

      “I haven’t said anything yet, you dunce!”

      “Oh. Well, tell me when you say something.”

      “Drover, listen carefully. I’m on patrol in the western quadrant. I’ve just made a visual sighting of an unidentified object. I think it’s the fiend.”

      “Oh my gosh, I knew I should have stayed at the gas tanks, oh, my leg’s killing me!”

      “The important thing now, Drover, is not to panic.”

      “It’s too late, I already did! Hank, I’m scared!”

      “Get control of yourself. Give me your location.”

      “I don’t know my location. I’m lost.”

      “How can you guard this ranch if you’re lost?”

      “What? I said, I’m lost! Help!”

      “Hold your present location. I’m moving up to check this thing out. If you don’t hear from me in an hour, run for the house and sound the alarm.”

      “I don’t think I can find the house!”

      “This will be a silent run, Drover. I’m breaking off communications as of this moment.”

      “Oh, my leg . . .”

      I shifted into my Attack Mode, which is a kind of stealthy crouch I use only on Code 3’s and Red Alerts. What it means is that I keep my body low to the ground while leading with my nose and following with a very stiff tail. In the Attack Mode I can cover short distances without making a sound.

      If you’ve never seen a blue-ribbon, top-of-the-line cowdog in Attack Mode, you’ll just have to take my word for it. It’s very impressive.

      I crept forward as the lightning snapped overhead and the thumber rundled and the wind shrieked and the dust swirled. Up ahead, I could see the glowing thing lurking in the gloom.

      Was I scared? Maybe. A little. After all, I’d never gone up against a fiend before. They’re not very common.

      Ten feet from the object, I stopped and took a deep breath. This was my last chance to back out, but as you might have already guessed, I didn’t. I coiled my legs under me and sprang to the attack.

      I struck the fiend with all my weight and force and was a little surprised that he went down as easily as he did. I mean, I buried him, fellers, just by George bedded him down and jumped in the middle of him.

      Suddenly, over the roar of the storm, I heard Drover. “Hank, help, Mayday, the fiend has me, help!”

      “There must be two of ’em, Drover! I’ve got my hands full here, so just fight for your life!”

      My fiend began to fight back, which wasn’t entirely unexpected. I hadn’t supposed that I would win without a tussle. It seldom happens that way in real life. But the important thing is that I had the upper hand.

      “I’ve got mine down, Drover! Give me a report on your situation.”

      “The fiend has me down, I’m whipped, I think I’ve lost a leg and a lot of blood, help, hurry, murder!”

      “Hang on, Drover, I’ll be right there!”

      I hated to leave СКАЧАТЬ