The Almost Last Roundup. John R. Erickson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ looking mighty sad.

      Chinaberry trees never saw it this bad.

      Cottonwoods fade, showing barren limbs,

      And the fish in the ponds are forgetting how to swim.

      We need rain.

      We need rain.

      Not a cloud in the sky, in the pale blue sky.

      If we don’t get a rain, everything is gonna die.

      The grass is gone, the hay’s used up.

      The cows look thin and they’re hunting grub.

      The people are tired and filled with doubt,

      And the dogs are sick of this stinking drought.

      We need rain.

      We need rain.

      Not a cloud in the sky, in the pale blue sky.

      If we don’t get a rain, everything is gonna die.

      The people are tired and filled with doubt.

      And the dogs are sick of this stinking drought.

      So there you are, a pretty neat song about a bad subject. I wish I could report that it brought us a big rain, but it didn’t.

      But life goes on, doesn’t it? In spite of the stinking drought, my day began in its normal fashion. I was up before daylight, staked out my usual position on that little hill north of headquarters, and barked up the sun.

      Once I had that done, and while most people and dogs were still in their beds, I launched the Second Phase of my morning’s routine, a complete and thorough walk-around of ranch headquarters. I checked it out from top to bottom: saddle shed, feed barn, machine shed, sick pen, garden, Emerald Pond, and every square inch of the corrals.

      It took me two hours, and I saw no signs of the Charlie Monsters who showed up later and took Sally May as a hostage. I mean, those guys really caught us…

      Wait. I wasn’t supposed to say anything about that, so let’s pretend that I didn’t. I was misquoted, how does that sound? If anyone asks about the you-know-whats, we know nothing about them at this point in the story and have no comment for the press. I think that’ll work.

      Anyway, after two solid hours of pretty intense sniffing around, I was feeling tired and thirsty, and made a Water Stop at the stock tank in the corrals. As I stepped up on the cement apron, my eyes caught sight of something lying on the shady side of the tank.

      I froze.

      It had a beak, two eyes, and a wild shock of something red on top of its head. In certain respects, it resembled a chicken or maybe a rooster, but I waited for Data Control to run Identity Scan. In my line of work, we have to be very cautious. Our enemies are clever and often use disguises, don’t you see, and sometimes they come creeping into ranch headquarters, wearing chicken suits.

      If this was an enemy agent in a chicken disguise, I needed to know about it.

      A message clicked across the screen of my mind: “Carbon-based organism with feathers. Chicken. Male. Have a nice day.”

      I allowed myself to relax. It was J.T. Cluck, one of our local bird-brains, loafing in the shade, and I didn’t want to waste half an hour of my life listening to him yap about whatever insignificant thoughts were floating through his little rooster mind.

      I began backing away from the tank, in hopes that he might not have seen me. Too late. He cocked his head to the side and squawked, “Oh, there you are. It’s about time you showed up.”

      “Sorry, J.T., I didn’t mean to disturb you. I need to move along.”

      “Not so fast, mister. Every chicken on this ranch has been wanting to talk to you.”

      “I’m a busy dog.”

      “Yeah, I’ve noticed—busy sleeping. Every time I look around, you’re spread out on that gunny sack bed, pumping out a line of Z’s.”

      “Maybe you should find something else to do, besides snoop on me.”

      “It ain’t snooping. Somebody needs to stay awake and pay attention.”

      “Are you finished?”

      “No, as a matter of fact, I’m just getting cranked up.” He stood up on his skinny legs and leaned closer to my face. “Pooch, we’ve got a crisis a-brewing on this ranch!”

      Chapter Two: Okie Dokie Doodle

      Well, I had been trapped into a conversation with J.T. Cluck, so I figured I might as well make the best of it and hear about the latest “crisis” on the ranch.

      “Okay, talk, and try to skip the boring parts.”

      “Pooch, me and every chicken on this ranch want to know what you’re going to do about this grasshopper shortage.”

      “I’m going to get a drink of water.”

      “Well, whoop-tee-doo. Listen, doggie, we ain’t seen a grasshopper since last October. How’s a chicken supposed to make a living around here?” I lapped water. “Course, you don’t give a rip, ‘cause they give you all that high-dollar grow-pup in a bowl. You might have a different attitude if you had to hustle your own grub.”

      “What are you complaining about? Sally May throws out grain for the chickens every morning.”

      “I know she does, but that stuff gives me heartburn.”

      I groaned. “Don’t start the heartburn stories. I don’t think I can stand it today.”

      He patted his chest and out came a ridiculous little chicken burp. “There, you see? I pecked that grain twenty-four hours ago and it’s still giving me fits. Elsa says I need more gravel in my craw, but that ain’t it. I need good old, honest American grasshoppers. A rooster can’t make a living on stink bugs and scorpions. You ever eat a scorpion?”

      “No.”

      “Well, you’ve never had heartburn ‘til you eat one of them little heathens. Son, they’ll bring tears to your eyes. They bite and sting all the way down the pipe. Why, the last time I ate a scorpion…”

      “J.T., is there a point to this?”

      “Huh? A point? Well, sure there is, and I’m a-getting there.” He glanced over his shoulders and dropped his voice. “Pooch, I’ve been a-meaning to talk to you about this. Elsa thinks there’s more to this grasshopper situation than meets the eye.” He waited for me to show some interest. “Are you going to listen to this or spend the rest of your life lapping water?”

      I had drunk my fill, so I sat down beside СКАЧАТЬ