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

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      Did you understand any of that business about the witch? I never figured it out, but when you work around Drover, you have to expect a certain amount of chaos and nonsense. But the important thing is that we were able to rush two loyal dogs to the scene of Slim’s latest crisis.

      We got there just in time. Slim’s face had turned red. There was fire in his eyes and his lips were pulled back in a snarl of rage. He held a ball-peen hammer in his right hand and, well, I got the impression that he was ready to throw it through the windshield.

      “Okay, Drover, let’s set the formation. It’s obvious that Slim needs our help.”

      “Gosh, what’ll we do?”

      “What do you think? We bark, of course, but not ordinary barks. For this deal, we’d better go to Motor Tune-up Barks. Ready? Let ’er rip!”

      Boy, you should have been there. It was really something to see and hear—two brave dogs pouring heart and soul into a chorus of barking against rust, corrosion, sludge, and your other evil agents that cause pickups to quit running. I don’t know as we’d ever done a better job with the Motor Tune-up Program, and I think it would have worked if only . . .

      I guess Slim didn’t understand what we were doing. (How many times has that happened? Thousands of times.) Maybe he thought we were just barking, just a couple of dumb mutts yapping at nothing in particular. In other words, he missed the whole point of the Motor Tune-up Barking Procedure. Just about the time we had really gotten into a rhythm and were pumping out some outstanding barks, he whirled around and screeched, “Knock off the dadgum noise, will you?”

      HUH? Knock off the . . .

      Okay. Fine. Sure. If that’s the way he felt about it, you bet, we could sit there like knots on a log and let his dumb old pickup rot into the ground. I mean, I had plenty of things to do and didn’t need to take his insults. If he thought he could fix his rattletrap piece-of-junk pickup without help from his dogs, by George, that was fine with me.

      I turned to my assistant. “Okay, Drover, let’s shut ’er down. Our help isn’t wanted here.”

      “Oh, darn. I was just getting into the good part.”

      “I know, but we can’t help him if he doesn’t want to be helped. We’ll just have to let him learn the hard way. Mark my words, son, they’ll have to tow that pickup all the way into town and leave it with a mechanic.”

      “Gosh, that’s too bad. You reckon we could have fixed it?”

      “Oh, sure, no question about it. Two more minutes of barking would have done the trick. But don’t be discouraged. We did all two dogs could have done. Let’s get out of here.”

      I gave Slim one last wounded glance and started to leave, but just then Loper came walking up from the house. I figured we might as well stick around and witness the next chapter in the drama.

      Loper walked up to the front of the pickup and looked under the hood. “Problem?”

      Slim nodded and gestured with the hammer. “Yalp, but if you’ll leave for about five minutes and cover your ears, I think I can fix it.”

      “What’s the trouble?”

      “Won’t start.”

      “It’s probably flooded. I smell gasoline.”

      “It’s a piece of junk.”

      Loper gave his head a shake. “Slim, some of us have the talent to fix machinery and some don’t. You couldn’t fix a yo-yo if the string broke.”

      “Yeah? Then start it yourself.”

      “I will. The secret is, don’t pump the foot-feed.”

      “I didn’t.”

      “That floods the motor.” Loper opened the pickup door and sat behind the wheel. “Watch and study your lessons, Slimbo.” Loper turned the key and cranked the motor. He cranked it for two minutes and nothing happened.

      A lopsided smirk spread across Slim’s mouth. “Don’t quit now. You’ve still got some battery left.”

      Loper showed him the palm of his hand. “Patience. That was just Step One. Did you open up the carburetor?”

      Slim hitched up his jeans. “No, I didn’t, and do you know why?”

      “Because you’re too lazy.”

      “No sir. The reason is that the last time me and you tried that, we had a little explosion.”

      Loper shrugged. “That was a freak. I’ll have a look.”

      “Okay, buddy, you’re paying the bills on this outfit.”

      Loper removed the air filter and looked into the carburetor. “Give ’er a crank.” Sitting behind the wheel, Slim hit the starter and the motor turned over several times. It didn’t start. Loper raised his hand in the air. “Hold it. I see the problem. It’s getting too much gas.”

      Slim heaved a sigh and looked up at the sky. “Loper, the pickup’s twenty years old and it wants to be traded off for a newer model. You can’t run a ranch with junkyard equipment.”

      “Sure you can. That’s how you stay in business in a bad cattle market.” Loper walked into the barn and came back with a handful of wrenches. He flashed a grin. “I’ll have it running in five minutes.”

      Slim shook his head. “In five minutes, you’ll have parts strung out over three acres, and it still won’t start.”

      Loper brought a finger to his lips. “Shhh. You’ll never learn anything if you’re flapping your mouth all the time.”

      Loper leaned over the fender and went to work on the . . . whatever it was. Slim looked down at us dogs and grinned. “Y’all watch. He don’t remember what happened the last time we tried this, but I do.”

      Slim drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while Loper clanked and banged under the hood. After about five minutes, he yelled, “Okay, give ’er a crank.”

      Slim stuck his head out the window. “Reckon you ought to step back a ways?”

      Loper shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Slim, we’re burning daylight.”

      “That ain’t all we’re fixing to burn.”

      “Crank the motor!”

      “Okay, buddy, you asked for this.”

      Slim hit the starter and . . .

      KA-BLOOEY!

      The top half of Loper’s body disappeared inside a cloud of blue smoke while his hat and several pieces СКАЧАТЬ