The Mopwater Files. John R. Erickson

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СКАЧАТЬ the ears but no fly walks into my nose. I lifted my head and cut loose a withering barrage of snapping. I missed them all, but they got the message and left my nose alone.

      And, what the heck, once I had gone to all the trouble to raise my head, I figured I might as well go on into Jack Up and Move. I jacked myself up, staggered five steps to the west, and collapsed.

      Whew! I was exhausted, but at least I wasn’t roasting. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. That’s what I needed. Sleep. About two weeks of solid sleep.

      Unfortunately, Slim the Cowboy came along just then. I cracked one eye but didn’t lift my head. Too exhausted. Slim was a pretty good fellow, but not so good that I could afford to squander a lot of energy saying hello. Not in this heat.

      He stopped in the same piece of shade that I was occupying. He pulled a bandanna out of his hip pocket and mopped his face.

      “Boy, it’s hot. The weather report’s prescribing another day over a hundred. This’ll make about five days in a row.”

      Yes, I was aware of that.

      “It kind of saps a guy of energy, don’t it, Hankie?”

      Right.

      “And you’re just going to lay there in the shade, aren’t you?”

      Yep.

      “You’re not even going to jump up and wag your tail and tell me how wonderful I am, are you?”

      Nope.

      “It kind of hurts my feelings, Hankie.”

      Life is hard.

      “Well, I wish I could just lay around in the shade, but some of us have to work for a living.”

      That was a cheap shot. For his information, I not only had a job but a very important job. It just happened that . . . well, I had run out of energy and ambition.

      You won’t believe this. He flopped down on the gravel drive and pillowed his head on my rib cage. Had I invited him to . . . urg . . . put his sweaty head in the middle of my poor exhausted body? No. I considered taking countermeasures but . . . too much trouble.

      “Ahhh! That’s better, but you’re awful bony for a pillow.”

      Well, if he didn’t like my bones, he could go find a jellyfish. And speaking of bones, his head wasn’t any featherbed. It was solid bone and it was heavy and hot and I didn’t need it on my rib cage, thank you.

      “Boy, this heat is terrible. It didn’t used to bother me, but it sure does now. I’ve got thirty-seven jobs to do and enough energy for about three of ’em.”

      Me too.

      “Too many birthdays, Hank. Don’t you reckon that’s the main problem?”

      I had no opinion on that.

      At last he raised up to a sitting position. He looked down at me and grinned. I summoned up the energy to whap my tail on the ground three times. Whew!

      “Well, this has been fun, Hankie, but I’d better go pack them wheel bearings on the stock trailer. I can already tell that you ain’t going to do it.”

      Correcto.

      With much grunting and muttering, he pushed himself up and shuffled off to the machine shed.

      At last, peace and quiet. I closed my eyes and began floating out on the sea of snoik morkus skittlebomb . . .

      Huh? My eyes popped open. Someone had moved my shade again! Was this some kind of joke? What was the deal? Every time I got comfortable, some idiot . . .

      I summoned my last reserves of energy and . . . Drover? There he was in front of me, giving me his usual foolish grin.

      “Hi Hank. What you doing?”

      “What I’m doing is trying to sleep, Drover, and restore my precious bodily fluids, but some maniac keeps moving my shade around. Did you see anybody messing with my shade?”

      “Well, let me think here. I saw Slim.”

      “No, it wasn’t him. I had him under constant surveillance.”

      “Boy, that’s a big word.”

      “Thanks.”

      “I wonder what it means.”

      I dragged myself back into the shade and flopped down. “I don’t know what it means. I don’t have the energy to explain it. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

      “Oh, that’s okay. Sure is hot, isn’t it?”

      I glared ice picks at him. “Yes it is, Drover, so why are you so chirpy?”

      “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been watching the chickens chase grasshoppers.”

      “Great.”

      “You ever watch a chicken chase a grasshopper?”

      “Yes.”

      “It’s kind of neat, isn’t it?”

      “No.”

      “I mean, they’re pretty good at it.”

      “It’s their busi­ness, Drover. If you’re a chicken, that’s what you do. Good night.”

      “Good night . . . only it’s the middle of the day.”

      “I’m aware of that.”

      “Boy, it sure is hot.”

      “That’s why I’m shaded up, Drover. It’s too hot to do any work, so snorkle the mirking piffle.”

      “Yeah, but I can’t sleep and I get bored. You ever get bored?”

      “Snork.”

      “I do. You ever try to catch a grasshopper?”

      “No.”

      “Me neither, but I bet I could. Want me to try?”

      “Sure. Go catch a pifflehopper.”

      “Okay, Hank, here I go.”

      At last! Peace and quiet. I sank into the warm embrace of a delicious dream and . . . Beulah? My goodness, there she was in all her splintering glory: the deep brown eyes, the flaxen hair, the perfect collie nose, the smile that said . . .

      Chapter Two: Drover Eats a Grasshopper

      “I caught one, Hank!”

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