Faded Love. John R. Erickson

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      “All right, Drover,” I called out. “I’m ready to go into action. Two questions: Where is Sally May?”

      “She went inside to get her camera.”

      “Number two: With whom or what do I go into combat?”

      Drover swallowed hard. “Oh, Hank, I hate to tell you this. It’s awful!”

      “Nothing’s awful unless you believe it’s awful.”

      “You’re going to be scared.”

      “I doubt that, son. Remember the Silver Mon­ster Bird? Remember the Enormous Monster? Remember the night I defended the ranch against the entire coyote nation? With that kind of combat record . . . never mind. Point me toward the enemy.”

      His teeth were chattering. “Over by the baby. You want to know what it is?”

      “Might as well.”

      “It’s a giant rattlesnake, Hank!”

      “HUH?”

      The hair stood up on the back of my neck. Chills rolled down my spine. All at once I felt the cold grip of fear closing around my throat.

      I have very few weaknesses, very few clinks in my armor. In fact, you might say I have only one weakness: I’m scared of snakes, always have been. My Uncle Pottsy was bitten on the face by a rattle­snake and died a horrible death.

      I started shaking. For a long time I couldn’t speak. The only thing that kept me from losing control was Drover. It would have ruined him.

      I fought against the shakes and chills, until at last I was able to speak. “One last question, Drover. Why didn’t you handle this case by yourself? Why did you come get me?”

      “Oh, I didn’t think I could jump the fence. My leg’s been . . .”

      “Is that the only reason?”

      “Uh-huh. Oh, and I’m scared of snakes, especially rattlesnakes. They bite.”

      “I see. Did it ever occur to you that I might be bitten?”

      “No.”

      “Or that I might be afraid of snakes?”

      “Oh heck no, ’cause you’re not a chicken-hearted little mutt like me.”

      “That’s true, unfortunately.” I took a deep breath. “Well, I guess there’s nothing left to say.”

      “No, just kill the snake and that’ll be it.”

      I glanced over at Little Alfred, so innocent, so absorbed in his play. “Where’d you see the snake?”

      “In the flowerbed, right behind the baby.”

      “Very well. So long, Drover.”

      “So long, Hankie. I’ll be waiting right here.”

      “We can bet on that.”

      I turned and started walking toward my fate. It’s funny, the memories that come back to you at such moments. I saw myself as a pup, playing tug-of-war with my sister Maggie while Ma watched us with a contented smile.

      Seeing Ma that way kind of gave me courage. She’s the one who taught me right from wrong, and I didn’t want to disgrace her memory. My steps grew bolder and I marched up the flowerbed.

      Little Alfred turned and smiled. “Goggie! Goggie!”

      I dipped my head, as if to say, “How’s it going, son?”

      Then I turned to the grim task before me. I cocked my ear and listened. If the snake rattled, at least I would know his position and could plan my attack so that if I got bitten, it would be on the foot instead of the face. I wanted to save my face for . . .

      Oh geeze, that started me thinking about Beulah again, my true and perfect collie love, the only woman in the world who could make me think of romance just before going into combat with a giant rattlesnake. But dang her soul, she loved a bird dog, and how could she love a bird dog . . .

      I shook those thoughts out of my head. This was no time for romantic notions.

      I cocked my ear and listened. Nothing. The snake wasn’t going to give me any warning, which was a piece of bad luck. I had no choice but to sniff out the flowerbed and force the snake out into the open, offering myself as a target in order to save Little Alfred.

      I was shaking again, and I mean all the way down to my toenails. I crept forward—sniffing, listening, waiting for the ineffable . . . uneffitable . . . inedible . . . whatever the dadgum word is, to occur. Inevitable.

      Even though I was expecting a strike, it shocked me when it came. I heard a hiss, saw a blur of motion to my right, and felt a sting on the end of my nose—the very worst and most fatal place to take a snakebite.

      I staggered back. My eyes began to dim. I felt the poison rushing through my bloodstream. My heart pounded in my ears. As I sank to my knees, I uttered not a cry and faced my untimely end with the little shreds of courage I could muster.

      As the gray veil moved across my eyes, I heard a strange voice: “Sorry about that, Hankie. You woke me up and I thought you were a big mouse.”

      HUH?

      Hadn’t I heard that whiny voice before? That was no snake. That was Pete the Barncat!

      I opened my eyes and sure enough, there was Pete’s insipid grin peeking out of the iris. “What are you doing in there? I thought you were a rattle­snake.”

      Pete licked his paw. “No, he was here but he crawled under the house. Snakes are very afraid of cats, you know, which is why a lot of people think cats are better at ranch security than dogs.”

      “Is that so?”

      “Um-hum. Because cats have something no cowdog in history has ever possessed.”

      “Such as?”

      He throwed an arch in his back, took a big stretch, and scratched the ground with his front paws. “Intelligence.”