The Case of the Double Bumblebee Sting. John R. Erickson

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      To no one’s surprise, I was the first to reach the Staging Area in front of the machine shed. Drover and his so-called limp had fallen behind and I had to wait for him to catch up.

      “Hurry up, Drover. We haven’t a minute to spare. This could turn out to be a very serious affair.”

      “Yeah, I know, and that’s the kind that really sets off this leg. I haven’t felt pain like this in years.”

      “Spare me the details.”

      At last, he joined me at the Staging Area. I studied the Target Zone, an area dominated by medium-to-tall weeds and various hunks of pipe, angle iron, channel iron, and so forth. Collectively, we referred to this material as “welding scraps,” for the simple reason that Slim and Loper used it for their welding jobs.

      If you want to know why their welding jobs always look junky, it’s because they draw their raw material from a pile of junk. And also, they’re not such great welders.

      Where was I? Staging Area. Combat. Drover and I were fixing to go into deadly combat against an enormous rattlesnake that had been terrorizing the entire ranch and threatening to bite and eat all the little children.

      Well, you know where I stand on the Children Issue. Early in my career, I took a Solemn Cowdog Oath to protect and defend innocent little children against all manner of monsters and crawling things, and the fact that this snake had been reported to be twelve feet long and as big around as an inner tube, capable of swallowing children whole and armed with huge fangs and poison that was so vehement that a single drop could kill a charging rinoserus . . . rhinoserous . . . a charging buffalo—all that didn’t bother me in the least.

      Okay, it bothered me some. A little bit. I’ve never been fond of snakes, especially rattle­snakes, and maybe I’m scared of ’em, but in this old life, what matters is not what you’re scared of, but what you do about being scared.

      And it was at that point that I began thinking, “Aw, what the heck, one little snake isn’t going to hurt anything.” But that was a cowardly thought and I swept it out of my mind immediately. If Drover had known that I was even the least bit afraid, there’s no telling what might have happened.

      He might have had a blowout on all four legs at once and been crippled for life. We couldn’t risk that. He was enough of a nuisance with one bad leg, and the thought of listening to him moan and groan about FOUR was more than I could bear.

      So I summoned all my courage and faced the difficult task that awaited me.

      “Drover, I’ll go first in what we refer to as ‘the first wave.’”

      “Yeah, and I’ll stay here and wave good-bye.”

      “No, you’ll come in the second wave and watch the rear.”

      “Yeah, and if you’re not the lead dog, the view never changes.”

      “Exactly. You’ll guard the rear and the left flank. Do you know what to do if you hear a rattle­snake?”

      “Oh, you bet.”

      “What?”

      “Run like a striped ape.”

      “No, that’s exactly wrong. You freeze, hold your position, and try to get a fix on his position. Is that clear?”

      “This leg’s killing me.”

      “I understand that you’re in pain, Drover, but just remember that disgrace is the worst pain of all.”

      “But you never know until you try.”

      I curled my lip at him. “Take my word for it, Drover, and don’t even think about retreating from the field of battle until I give the signal. Is that clear?”

      “I hope I can stand the pain!”

      “You’ll find a way, Drover, because at this very moment, even as we speak, your conscience is talking to you.”

      “It is?”

      “Yes, and what it’s saying is that if you run off and leave me alone on the field of battle, I will make hamburger meat out of your worthless carcass. Now, let’s move out.”

      And with those touching words, I turned toward the west, took a deep breath of air, lifted my head to a stern angle, narrowed my eyes, and marched off to war.

      “Oh boy, this leg is even worse than I thought!”

      I tried to ignore the noise behind me and concentrate on every weed and shadow in the Combat Zone, behind any one of which might lurk the huge and deadly rattlesnake. I took one step, and then another.

      And another. And another. And then five more. And then . . .

      Suddenly there was a blur of motion in the corner of my periphery, a rapid blur of motion. I froze. Drover ran into me.

      “Oops.”

      “Stop that! Didn’t you hear me say halt?”

      “Not really.”

      “Well, I didn’t say halt, but even more important was the fact that I halted, and when I halt, you halt! And stop running into me when I’m tense and alert. Do you understand that?”

      “I guess so. Did you see something?”

      “Affirmative. I saw something, but it wasn’t a snake.”

      “Oh good! What was it?”

      “A cottontail rabbit. He jumped into that fourinch pipe over there. In other words . . .”

      Suddenly the pieces of the puzzle began falling into place. I shot a glance down to the yard gate. Sally May was there in her housecoat, scraping my morning scraps off a plate and giving them all to . . .

      “Drover, we’ve been duped.”

      “We have?”

      “Yes, we have. We’ve been duped by the cat who sent us up here on a fool’s errand.”

      “You mean . . .”