The Case of the Kidnapped Collie. John R. Erickson

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Instead of arming themselves with ropes and spurs, as usual, they had brought hammers and saws and pry bars. They had even brought a device that I had thought was against the law on our outfit: a tape measure.

      No kidding, Slim and Loper had actually brought a tape measure to the job site! I was dumb-foundered. I mean, after years and years of wood-butchery and the very worst displays of cowboy carpentry, why had they suddenly decided to measure their boards?

      I couldn’t understand it. Maybe Loper had read an article on woodworking and had run into a reference to something called a “tape measure.” It must have given him such a jolt that he decided to buy one at the lumberyard and try it out.

      Slim set the tone for the project when he pulled out a foot of tape and squinted at it for a long time. “Say, do these little marks between the inch lines mean anything?”

      To which Loper replied, “Those are for brain surgeons.”

      “Good. I can’t hardly see ’em.”

      And away they went, hacking and sawing and pounding. Would you care to listen in on one of their high-tech conversations? Okay, they had just sawed two boards and were putting them in place.

      Loper: “Do they fit?”

      Slim: “Nope.”

      Loper: “Are they close?”

      Slim: “Nope.”

      Loper: “Do they touch?”

      Slim: “Yep, barely.”

      Loper: “Nail ’em. We ain’t building pianos.”

      I don’t mean to scoff or make fun of their pathe­tic efforts, but if you think I’m exaggerating, just take a tour of the feed barn sometime and pay close attention to the west side.

      Anyways, it was November and I had noticed the many signs of fall. The locust and chinaberry trees had . . . I’ve already mentioned that, but I didn’t say anything about the cockleburs.

      You know for sure that fall has arrived when all the horses on the ranch start wearing cockleburs in their tails, manes, and . . . whatever you call that bunch of hair on their foreheads . . . bangs, forelocks, padlocks . . . I’m sorry I brought it up.

      The horses get involved with cockleburs, is the point, and even we dogs collect a few of them. In the fall of the year, it’s almost impossible to conduct ranch business without picking up some cockleburs.

      Other signs of fall: The hawks and kites have left and other types of birds have moved in, such as your crows, your bluebirds, your robins, and your sandhill cranes.

      And wild turkeys, but we’ll get to that later on.

      Oh yes, and the wasps. All at once, they were everywhere and they were lazy and it didn’t take much talent to get stung by one, the hateful little things.

      Oh, and one last symptom of fall in our country is that you begin seeing tarantula spiders. You never see them until the fall of the year (which is sure okay with me), then all at once you see them crossing the road.

      Me, I can get along just fine without tarantulas. They are big and hairy-legged and ugly, and let’s change the subject. They give me the creeps.

      Where were we? Oh yes, the Board Butchers were trying to repair the west side of the feed barn. Around two o’clock, they stopped and took a break. And it was then that I heard the bad news.

      I happened to be seated nearby, beaming glares at Pete the Barncat and trying to extract three cockleburs from my coat of hair. I had been ignoring most of Slim and Loper’s conversation, since it had been fairly boring, but I perked up when I realized that they were discussing a dog.

      “You know, Slim, I’ve never gotten much of a kick out of hunting quail, and just the other day I realized why.”

      “’Cause you’re a terrible shot?”

      “No. The sport in bird hunting, the real sport, comes from watching the dogs work, and I’m talking about good dogs, trained dogs, dogs that are born and bred for birds.”

      “Yalp, but instead of owning a bird dog, you’ve got one that’s bird-brained.”

      The conversation stopped and I realized that they were both staring at . . . well, ME, you might say. I thumped my tail on the ground and gave them my most sincere cowdog smile.

      Slim: “See what I mean? He’s eatin’ cockleburs.”

      What? Was he trying to be funny? All right, maybe I did have a cocklebur in my mouth at that very moment, but I was extracting it from my coat, thank you, and not EATING it.

      And just to prove it, to show what a silly mockery he was making of my dignity, I spit it out. There!

      I wasn’t eating cockleburs.

      Nor was I amused by his childish remark about . . . what was it? Something about a “bird-brained dog”?

      Not funny, not funny at all, but of course he laughed at his own stale joke.

      He thought he was such a comedian.

      Loper continued. “Anyhow, I invited Billy to come over this afternoon and bring that dog of his. I guess he’s a pretty good quail dog.”

      HUH?

      My head shot up and so did my ears.

      Billy? Quail dog? Holy smokes, Billy was our neighbor down the creek and his so-called quail dog was named . . .

      You guessed it. Plato.

      Chapter Two: A Porkchop on the Eighth Floor

СКАЧАТЬ