Murder in the Middle Pasture. John R. Erickson

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      Solving a major case in an hour was nothing out of the ordinary for me. I mean, when you get into your higher echelon of cowdogs, brains and breeding and dashing good looks are standard equipment.

      Your common unpapered ranch mutt might have one quality out of the three, but not all three at once. Where I solved the Wild Hog Case in an hour’s time, your ordinary mutt would spend a day and a half on it.

      Your sub-ordinary mutt, such as Drover, might take a month and a half to crack the case.

      Well, I had cracked the case and felt that warm glow of satisfaction that comes when a dog knows he’s done his job, yet the investigation had taken its toll and I was ready to throw up a long line of Z’s.

      I kicked Drover out of my bed, fluffed it up, and was in the process of turning around in a tight circle, looking for the perfect spot to land, when I heard the sound of a motor.

      I froze. My ears shot up. A snarl came to my lips. I looked to the left. I looked to the right. And then I saw it. A pickup was pulling into the gravel drive behind the house, and the gravel was popping under the weight of the tires.

      The intruder parked beside Sally May’s car, which may have been a significant clue. On the other hand, it may have meant nothing. A guy doesn’t know until . . . you get the idea.

      “Get up, Drover, that pickup hasn’t been cleared.”

      “But Hank . . . do we have to run in the snow?”

      I gave him a withering glare. “Unless you can fly, son, you’ll have to run in the snow. Come on.”

      With a look of agony stamped on his face, Drover ventured one foot into the snow. I streaked past him and headed up the hill to check the tires on that unidentified pickup.

      Turned out to be Slim’s rig so there was no real emergency, but just to be on the safe side, I restamped his right front tire. There’s no sense in taking chances.

      High Loper and Sally May came out the back door. Loper had two suitcases in each hand and a playpen under his arm. Sally May carried the baby and several packages wrapped in colorful paper and tied with ribbons.

      I sat down beside the gate and hung around to see what was going on. Drover had made it up the hill by that time. He stood shivering in the snow with his feet together.

      Loper appeared to be in a foul mood and Slim started joshing him. “Gosh, Loper, I sure wish I was going someplace for Christmas. You sure y’all got enough stuff. You forgot the dinner table and the commode.”

      Sally May gave him the evil eye. “Slim, this isn’t the time for your brand of humor. When you get married and have kids, you’ll understand about traveling.”

      “Yes ma’am.”

      When Sally May wasn’t looking, Loper shook his head at Slim and his mouth formed the words, “No you won’t.”

      Slim shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and grinned at Loper. “Reckon that stuff’ll fit into the car or do you want me to hook up the stock trailer?”

      Loper muttered under his breath, something about “your Sunday britches.” I studied Slim’s jeans. They looked normal to me—kind of worn and dirty, actually, and I sure wouldn’t have described them as church clothes. But cowboys are a strange breed. They don’t always think like the rest of the world.

      I was waiting beside the gate when Sally May came out. I wagged my tail and gave her a big cowdog smile. She looked down at me with narrowed eyes and said, “Get away, you nasty thing!”

      What . . . ? How . . . ? Hey, I didn’t jump up on her, I didn’t lick her in the face, I didn’t lick her on the leg. I didn’t do anything but smile at her!

      All right, maybe she was still sore at me for jumping up on the dinner table and eating those T-bone steaks, or for running into the utility room after I’d been sprayed by a skunk, but heck, that had been months ago.

      I was perfectly willing to start over with a clean slate and try to make something of the friendship, but Sally May had always been bad about carrying a grudge. Over little things too.

      So she walked past me with her nose in the air, and then you know what she did? On her way to the car she saw Mister Pitiful, Mister Half-Stepper, Mister Sleep-Till-Noon—meaning Drover, of course—and instead of saying “Get away you nasty thing,” she bent down and rubbed his neck.

      “Poor puppy’s cold.” She straightened up. “Oh Slim, why don’t you let Drover sleep in the utility room while we’re gone. Poor little thing doesn’t have a warm coat like,” she looked at me and her lip curled up, “like Hank McNasty.”

      I wagged my tail.

      “Hank can stay out with the skunks and the sewer, but Drover needs a warm bed.”

      Let me intrude here to make one small point. Drover had very little promise as a cowdog, but even if he’d had papers and instincts and the rest of the program, that kind of mollycoddling would have ruined him.

      The worst thing you can do to a ranch dog is spoil him. Let him stay inside in the winter and you’ve ruined him. For the rest of his life, he’ll expect a warm bed.

      Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I still believe that a cowdog ought to be just a little tougher than your ordinary breeds, and you’ll never catch me sleeping in a warm house, no matter how cold it gets outside.

      So there you are, a little insight into the price we pay for being special, and also a little insight into why Drover would never go far in the business.

      In addition to being dumb and chickenhearted, he had a weakness for comfort.

      Sally May opened the back door of the car. Then she opened the front door too and put the baby into the baby seat. I watched from the gate.

      Why СКАЧАТЬ