The Case of the Booby-Trapped Pickup. John R. Erickson

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СКАЧАТЬ almost. On the morning of November 28, the very first day of winter feeding, a problem developed, a problem so serious that even I hadn’t antipisated it. At 8:07 that morning . . . anticipated . . . at 9:07 that morning, Slim’s old pickup quit working. It died right in front of the machine shed, and we’re talking about graveyard dead.

      Fortunately, I was on duty and ready to swing into action. Whilst Slim raised the hood and went through his usual checklist (scratching his head, scowling at the motor, wiggling two wires, and calling the pickup a piece of junk), I reached for the microphone of my mind and put out a call to the Elite Troops of the Security Division.

      “Hank to Drover, over. Report to the machine shed at once. We’ve got a mechanical failure up here, and Slim’s in over his head, over. Do you copy?”

      I waited and listened. Not a sound, except for static on the radio. Where was he? Every time I really needed the little goof, he was . . . but then I heard the shuffle of his feet on the gravel, and he came dragging around the northeast corner of the machine shed. Was he running or showing any indication that this was an urgent matter? No. He was taking his sweet time, wearing a silly grin and gazing around at the scenery.

      He walked into the icy beam of my hot glare and stopped. “Oh, hi. Were you barking for me?”

      “I called you, yes. You may have thought I was merely barking, but it was actually a downlink microwave transmission from one of the Security Division’s communication satellites.”

      “I’ll be derned. It sure sounded like a bark to me.”

      “It was more than a bark, but never mind. Did you get my urgent message?”

      “Well, let me think here.” He rolled his eyes around. “I think you said that Slim was . . . standing on his head?”

      The air hissed out of my lungs. “That wasn’t the message. I said that Slim was in over his head. His pickup quit on him and he needs backup right away.”

      “His pickup won’t back up?”

      “Affirmative. It won’t back up and it won’t go forward either. It’s broken and he needs a backup from us.”

      “You mean . . . we have to pull it backward?”

      I stuck my nose in his face. “Drover, listen to me. The pickup won’t start and Slim is a lousy mechanic. He needs our help. Do you understand?”

      “Well . . . I’m not sure. How come he’s standing on his head?”

      “He’s not standing on his head! Look at him. Is he standing on his head?”

      You won’t believe this part. Just as Drover swung his gaze around, Slim bent down and looked underneath the pickup, so that his head almost touched the ground. Drover flashed a grin. “Oh, I see now. He’s standing on his head, trying to figure out how come the pickup won’t back up, only he’s not really standing on his head. Did I get it right?”

      What can you say? “Yes. Fine. Very good. Now, let’s march over there and see if we can lend a hand.”

      “What if we don’t have any hands?”

      I froze. “What?”

      “If all you’ve got is paws, how can you lend a hand?”

      “Drover, are you trying to be funny?”

      “I don’t think so. All I’ve got is four paws, honest. See?” He proceeded to show me his paws.

      “Then don’t lend a hand. Lend a paw. Let’s go. We’re wasting valuable time here.” I shoved my way past him and started toward Slim.

      “Which paw?”

      Again, I had to stop. “What did you say?”

      “When?”

      “Just now.”

      He rolled his eyes around. “Well, let me think. I said that Slim was standing on his head.”

      “No, after that.”

      “Well, I said . . . I already forgot.”

      I could feel my temper rising. “You said . . . you said something about a witch.”

      “I did?”

      “Yes, you certainly did, and don’t try to deny it. Now, why were you inquiring about witches?”

      His eyes blanked out. “I don’t know, but Halloween’s already past.”

      “That’s correct. Are you saying that we still have a Halloween witch running around on the ranch?”

      “Well . . .”

      “Because, if you are”—I began pacing in front of him—“this could lead our investigation into an entirely new direction.”

      “Yeah, but . . .”

      “Where did you see this witch? Around headquarters?”

      “No, all I said was, which paw?”

      I froze in my tracks. “Witch paw? She had paws? Holy smokes, Drover, why didn’t you report this sooner?”

      “No, I said . . .”

      “A witch with paws! This could turn out to be very interesting.” I resumed my pacing. “Okay, let’s follow up on this. Describe the paws.”

      He held up a foot and squinted at it. “Well, let’s see. Four toes and dirty nails, and hair between the toes.”

      “Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere. This was a hairy witch, the most dangerous kind. Was she riding a broom? Carrying a pumpkin? Did she have a black cat?” I noticed that the runt had collapsed to the ground and covered his ears with his paws. I marched over to him. “Now what? I’m trying to work up this case, Drover, but I must have your cooperation. Was she riding a broom?”

      “Who?”

      “The witch, of course.”

      He let out a moan. “I didn’t see a witch! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

      “You . . . you didn’t see a hairy witch with paws?”

      “No!”

      There was a long moment of silence. “Drover, if you didn’t see a witch, then what is the point of this conversation?”

      “I don’t know. I’m so confused, I want to go back to bed.”

      “I see.” I took a slow breath of air. “In that case . . . Drover, what were we doing before you dragged us into a ridiculous conversation about witches?”

      “I don’t remember.”

      “Hmmm. Neither СКАЧАТЬ