The Wounded Buzzard on Christmas Eve. John R. Erickson

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СКАЧАТЬ to the lock to the door to the dark cellar of . . . it was definitely the key.

      At first glance, that radar dish resembled an ordinary coat hanger that had been wired to the stump of the radio antenna, but that could very well have been a clever disguise calculated to throw children, fools, and dogs untrained in security work off the . . .

      Hold up. Cancel the Red Alert. Forget what I just said. Never mind.

      Okay, what we had here was Slim driving his red, flatbed, four-wheel drive, Ford pickup into headquarters. Yes, I recognized the spare tire and the web of baling wire in the back end, and I remembered very clearly the day a bale of alfalfa hay had slipped off the top of the load and sheared off the radio antenna.

      I also remembered very clearly that right after lunch that same day, Slim had wired a coat hanger onto the stump.

      Okay. Drover had noticed none of this, of course, and now he was yipping his little head off.

      “Save your breath, son, it’s only Slim.”

      He stopped and squinted at the pickup, which had pulled up in front of the house. “Well I’ll be derned. I thought you said we were under Red Alert.”

      “I said nothing of the sort. I said, ‘Drover, this pickup is red. Be on the alert.’”

      He sat down and scratched his ear. “Huh. How come we’re supposed to be on the alert for red pickups?”

      I walked over to him, shaking my head. “Drover, if you don’t know the answer to that one by this time, I don’t think it would do a lick of good to tell you.” He licked his chops. I glared at him. “Why do you keep doing that?”

      “Doing what?”

      “Every time I use the word ‘lick,’ you lick your chops.”

      “I don’t know. There’s this little voice in my head that says, ‘Drover, lick your chops.’ And I lick my chops. It just seems the right thing to do, I guess.”

      “Well, it’s NOT the right thing to do. It’s inappropriate and irrational behavior. It’s very much like a nervous twitch, and it makes you look silly.”

      Suddenly, his eyes twitched. “Oh my gosh, there’s that voice again, and this time it said, ‘Drover, twitch your eyes.’ I can’t help myself.”

      “Tell the voice to shut up.”

      “Shut up!”

      “Watch your mouth, son, you’re speaking to the Head of Ranch Security.”

      “I was talking to the voice.”

      “Oh.”

      “But it’s still there, telling me to twitch my eyes.”

      “Very well, we’ll have to go to sterner measures. What we have here is a clear case of compulsory behavior. Look into my eyes and repeat after me.”

      “Okay.”

      “Repeat: ‘Voice of the mysterious twitch, voice of the irrational licking mechanism, away, away, be gone!’ That should do it.”

      He tried it, and you’ll never believe this, but it worked!

      “Gosh, Hank, that sure did the trick. The voice is gone, my twitch has disappeared, I’m a free dog again!”

      “Good. Excellent. I haven’t used that trick in a long . . .”

      All at once, I heard this voice in my head—a still, small, high-pitched, rather whiny voice that reminded me of a certain obnoxious cat. And the voice said, “Hankie, twitch your eyes.”

      Drover was staring at me. “Did you just twitch your eyes?”

      “What? Twitch my . . . don’t be absurd.”

      “There it goes again. Hank, I think you’ve caught my twitch.”

      “That’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard you say, Drover. There’s no way that . . .”

      But you know what? I HAD caught his derned twitch, even though it was impossible. And, fellers, I had a pretty severe case of it. I leaped into the air, scratched the side of my head, sprinted a short distance, and rolled in the snow.

      And finally, the voice and the twitch went away. I stood up, shook myself, and returned to my assistant.

      “Well, I licked that twitch.” Now get this. His tongue shot out and swept across his chops, and his eyes began to twitch. “But I can already see that you’re beyond help. You’re a compulsory nincompoop, Drover, and you might as well accept it.”

      “Thanks, Hank. How come we’re supposed to be on the alert for red pickups?”

      “Red pickups? What are you . . . oh yes, red pickups. It’s obvious, Drover, but if you wish, I’ll give you a hint.”

      “Yeah, that might help.”

      “In fact, I’ll give you more than a hint. I’ll give you the answer, and I’ll expect you to remember it always. We must be on the alert for red pickups because fire trucks are red.”

      “Except for the tires.”

      “Hush. Fire trucks also drive very fast. Hence, any red pickup we see could very well be an emer­gency vehicle streaking toward the scene of a fire. We should be on the alert and give it the right of way. That’s as clear as I can make it.”

      “I still thought you said Red Alert.”

      “I did NOT say anything about Red Alert. Just remember about the fire trucks, and if you have any further questions, don’t hesitate to shut your little trap.”

      Having completed Drover’s lesson in Fire Truck Safety, I turned my attention to the yard gate. Slim was there, carrying a large box wrapped in red paper and crowned with a big green bow.

      Obviously, this was no ordinary box. It had all the markings of a present. This being December, the month in which Christmas was scheduled to fall, the present could very easily have been a Christmas present.

      The question was, for who or whom? I needed to check that out, for you see, although we dogs are not accustomed to receiving gifts and don’t really expect to be recognized for the many services we perform on the ranch, a small possibility existed that Slim was bringing the gift for . . . well, for us.

      Or, to narrow it down even more, for ME.

      Chapter Two: A Gift for Me?

      Iwent padding up to Slim, just as he was going through the gate. I was glad to see the old rascal, and as you might expect, he was delighted to see me.

      “Hi Hankie, what do you think of this snow?”

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