The Dungeon of Doom. John R. Erickson

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      I swallowed my urge to go into a screaming fit. “The pickups, Drover, the pickups and stock trailers and horses. Do you understand why they’re here?”

      “You called me Drover. Thanks. It really means a lot when you call me by my real name.”

      “I’m fixing to call you . . . just answer the question.”

      “Well, let me think.” He rolled his eyes around and scrunched up his lips. “They’re here because . . .they’re not somewhere else?”

      “Okay, that’s a start. If the pickups and so forth weren’t here, they’d be somewhere else.”

      “Yeah, and if they were somewhere else, they wouldn’t be here.”

      “Exactly my point. But let’s look deeper. Why are they here instead of somewhere else?” I stood there for thirty seconds, waiting for the little ninny to come up with the answer. “I’m sorry, we’re out of time. You’ve flunked your test.”

      “Wait, I’ve got it. They’re here because . . .”

      “Yes, yes?”

      “They’re here because . . . because . . .”

      “Hurry up, Drover!”

      “They’re here because . . . out of all the places in the whole world, this is where they all came. And there’s a whole bunch of places where they didn’t go.”

      The air hissed out of my lungs and I found myself staring at the dirt. “I try to help you. I try to bring you into my conversations, and you give me meathead answers like that. You flunk, pal, and you can spend the rest of the day in your room—with your nose in the corner.”

      He stared at me with tragic eyes. “No, anything but that. I hate standing in the corner.”

      “Drover, I gave you five chances to come up with the right answer and you still couldn’t do it. When you flunk a test, you have to take the punishment.”

      “One more chance. I’ll get it this time. Can you give me a little hint?”

      I thought it over. “Okay, one more chance and that’s it. Here’s the hint: they came to help Slim and Loper with the spring branding.”

      I know, it was more than a “little hint,” but I wanted to get this mess over with. And, to be honest, I’d begun to have second thoughts about sending him to his room. Maybe that was too harsh a punishment.

      Drover went into a pose of deep concentration while I tapped my toe and gazed up at the clouds. Then his eyes popped open and a smile washed over his mouth. “I’ve got it this time.”

      “Great. What’s the answer?”

      He puffed himself up and said, “Loper’s pickup has a busted spring and they’re going to help him put on a brand-new one.”

      A heavy silence rolled over us. I stared into the huge emptiness of his eyes. He was grinning, so happy with himself for coming up with the answer. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was three times dumber than a box of rocks. I pushed him aside and marched away as fast as I could go. I couldn’t stand any more.

      Behind me, he called out, “Did I pass? Are you proud of me?”

      “Yes. No. I don’t care. Don’t ever speak to me again.”

      Whew! I got away just in time. I’ve said this before but I’ll say it again: that’s a weird little mutt.

      By this time the cowboys had unloaded their horses and tightened their cinches, and they were standing in a circle around Loper and Slim. Loper was giving out the orders for the roundup, telling which riders to go to which parts of the pasture. I stood outside the circle for a few moments, then wiggled my way between a pair of legs and emerged inside the ring of cowboys.

      There, I sat down and, well, gave them a grin that said, “Sorry I’m late. What’s the plan?”

      When I appeared on the scene, Loper stopped in the middle of his sentence. His eyes came at me like . . . I don’t know, like a two-pronged fork, I guess you would say. They didn’t seem real friendly.

      “Hank, we won’t be needing your help. Stay out of the way and don’t make a sound until we get the cattle penned.”

      What? Stay out of the . . . hey, what was the deal? First they’d planned a roundup without consulting me, and now they didn’t want my help? I was astamished, shocked, and deeply wounded. I looked around the circle of faces (why were they all grinning?) and went to a tail-setting we call “I Can’t Believe You’re Serious.” In this setting, the top 90 percent of the tail assumes a lifeless position, while the last few inches tap out a slow, mournful rhythm on the ground.

      Tap . . . tap . . . tap.

      I studied their faces again, and suddenly realized that they weren’t going to use me in the roundup. They weren’t even looking at me. They had cut me out of their plans, thrown me aside like an old boot. This was crazy! I mean, what’s the reason for keeping a highly trained cowdog on the place if you’re not going to let him use his talents? Over the years, I had proved myself . . .

      Okay, maybe I’d messed up a time or two. Stood in the wrong gate. Barked at the wrong time. Stirred up a cow or two. Caused a couple of, uh, stampedes. But, hey, I’d learned from my little lapses in judgment, and those experiences had made me an older dog, a wiser dog. I was sure I could control my savage instincts and be a productive member of the Team.

      No more careless barking. No more picking fights with stupid . . . no more getting into childish СКАЧАТЬ