The Case of the Swirling Killer Tornado. John R. Erickson

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      Did I say that we went streaking up the hill?

      I went streaking up the hill. I ran. I threw my entire heart and soul into the effort. Drover, on the other hand, limped and lollygagged, cried and complained every step of the way.

      But we did manage to establish a position near the yard gate. There, I halted the column and prepared our defense of the ranch.

      Most of the time, our spring storms track from the southwest to the northeast, and they usually occur in the late afternoon. In other words, a guy can see them building up and can prepare for them.

      This one was different. It was one of those sneaky storms that build up after dark and come rolling in after everyone has gone to bed.

      The first sign of trouble is the twinkle of distant lightning in the distance. Then the wind will rise, and most generally it’s a moist wind. Then a guy will begin to hear grumbles of thunder, and by that time, fellers, you’d better be in Battle Stations.

      We were. We’d made it just in time. I marched back and forth in front of the troops.

      “All right, men, we’ve seen the enemy. At first glance, he appears to be huge and awesome, but I want to remind you that he puts on his pants just the way we do. Any questions?”

      Drover raised his paw. “If we don’t wear pants, can we go hide in the machine shed?”

      “No. The pants business was just a figure of speech, Drover, and I’d be grateful if you’d try to be more serious.”

      “I am serious. I’m seriously scared of storms.”

      “Yes, and that’s one of your problems. You’re too serious about everything. You have no sense of humor. Any more questions?” Drover raised his paw. “Yes? You in the back.”

      “What should we do with the wounded?”

      I continued pacing. “The wounded. Good question. I hadn’t actually worked through that one, but yes, we need to have a contagency plan for the wounded. Hmmm. Okay, here we go. We’ll have to establish a field hospital in the machine shed and try to get the wounded in there as soon as possible.”

      “Got it. See you around.”

      If I hadn’t stopped the little mutt, he would have gone streaking to the machine shed. “Hold it, stop right there, halt. You’re not excused, and where do you think you’re going?”

      “Well, I was fixing to rush me to the hospital.”

      “We haven’t even barked a shot yet.”

      “Yeah, but this old leg is just tearing me up.”

      “Soldier, I’m fixing to tear up another part of your anatomy if you don’t hold your position. We’re in Battle Stations and the enemy is approaching. Get back to your post, and that’s a direct order.”

      “Oh darn.”

      “And I will not tolerate cursing and swearing in this outfit.”

      “Oh drat.”

      “There you go again. For cursing and swearing in the line of duty, you get three Shame-on-You’s.”

      “Oh phooey.”

      “Make that six, Drover. You want to go for nine?”

      “Sure, might as well.”

      “Okay, pal, you want to buck the system and be a little rebel, so you’re up to nine Shame-on-You’s.”

      “Oh fiddle.”

      “There’s twelve. How about fifteen? You want to shoot for bigger numbers, huh? We’ve got time. Go ahead, get it out of your system.”

      “I thought I was bucking the system.”

      “You’re bucking against life, Drover.”

      “I knew a bucking horse one time.”

      “Yes, and what did it get him? He bucked and he bucked and he bucked, and what did it get him? Tell me.”

      “Well, he pitched Slim through the saddle shed door.”

      “Exactly. And do you see what all this means?”

      “Not really.”

      “It means . . . it means that you have twelve Shame-on-You’s on your record. Do you want to go for fifteen?”

      “No, I’m out of naughty words.”

      “Good. Twelve’s bad enough. If you ever try to get another ranch job, those Shame-on-You’s will be on your record. Everyone will know what a rot­ten little mutt you really are, and do you think anybody will offer you a job?”

      “I wouldn’t.”

      “Neither would I, Drover. In fact, with your lousy record, I’m not sure you have a place in our Security Division. How does that make you feel?”

      “Can I go to the machine shed?”

      “No.”

      “Shucks.”