Every Dog Has His Day. John R. Erickson
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу Every Dog Has His Day - John R. Erickson страница 3
Название: Every Dog Has His Day
Автор: John R. Erickson
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Учебная литература
Серия: Hank the Cowdog
isbn: 9781591887102
isbn:
“What if there’s three?”
“If there’s three, Drover, we’ll play it by ear. Ready? Bark!”
We sent up an amazing barrage of barking, just by George fractured the silence of morning with alarms and threatening sounds. Even though we had the situation pretty well under control, it wouldn’t have made me mad if High Loper had come rushing down from the house with his gun.
Well, we were in the midst of our barking procedure when all of a sudden a two-legged, human-type monster leaped out the door. He had two clawed hands and a ferocious expression on his face. Oh yes, and he made a terrible sound: “HEE-YAHHHH!”
The hair shot up on the back of my neck and my deep roar of a bark suddenly turned into a squeak, and you might say that I plowed little Drover under trying to get away from the monster, thought I would give a little ground, see, and then establish another . . .
Let me say here that the cowboys on this outfit have a twisted sense of humor, and sometimes I get the feeling that they don’t take my job as seriously . . .
Okay, maybe it was Slim. Maybe the jingling bells had actually been his spurs. Maybe he was trying to be funny, jumping out the door with his claws out. But the point is that nobody had cleared . . . never mind.
Chapter Two: A Working Hippopotamus Takes Shape
Oh, he got a big chuckle out of it, Slim did, just laughed and howled and held his sides and fell on the ground. I didn’t think it was so funny myself.
“Did you think I was going to get you, Hankie? You’d better be more careful what you bark at.” He went back into the saddle shed, chuckling to himself. It’s always a little shocking to realize how childish these cowboys can be.
Well, it took me a whole minute to get the hair to lay back down on my neck, and then I looked around for Drover. He had disappeared. I went looking for him, figgered he might have high-balled it up to the machine shed, but I found him hiding behind one of them big Chinese elms just east of the garden. I could see his eyes peeking around the trunk.
“You can come out now, Drover.”
“What was that thing?”
“Just Slim, trying to be funny.”
“Oh. Sure didn’t look like Slim to me.”
“First impressions are often wrong, Drover. You must learn to probe deeper and look for the forest instead of the trees.”
Drover stared at me and twisted his head. “I thought you said it was Slim.”
“I did say it was Slim.”
“Oh. I thought that’s what you said, but then you said he was a tree.”
“No, you weren’t paying attention. How could Slim be a tree?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think he looked much like a tree. He didn’t have enough bark.”
“He didn’t bark at all, Drover. WE barked at HIM.”
“Yeah, I know, but he didn’t have enough bark to be a tree.”
“Of course he didn’t, you dunce, because trees don’t bark! Now stop wasting my time and . . .” All at once I heard a pickup coming down the road from the mailbox. “Wait a minute, what is this?”
Drover looked up. “I think it’s a tree.”
“What? No, coming down the road.”
“Oh. Gosh, it looks like a pickup to me.”
“Indeed it is a pickup, pulling a green stock trailer. The question is, what is it doing on my ranch?”
“Beats me, but I wonder what it’s doing here?”
“Good question, Drover, and we’re fixing to find some answers. Come on!”
We went streaking toward the unidentified pickup and barked it all the way down to the corrals. Just as I was about to sniff out the tires and mark them for future reference, another pickup came rolling in. And another!
I called to Drover and we went rushing out to meet the trespassers, gave each one of them as much of a barking as we could manage under the circumstances. Something very strange was going on here, and I needed to find out what it was.
I picked up some clues right away. All three of the pickups were pulling stock trailers. All three stock trailers had four wheels. Two were green and one was brown—no pattern there, but I noticed it anyway. And finally, inside each of the trailers was a horse—not the same horse, you see, but three different horses—and all three horses were saddled.
The drivers got out and two of them stretched their arms. I recognized two out of the three suspects. One was named Baxter, the other was Billy. Both lived on ranches down the creek, which meant they were neighbors. I didn’t recognize the third man.
Oh, and they were all wearing spurs and chaps. That was kind of revealing too. When the neighbors come prowling around in shurs and spaps, spurs and chaps, that is, it usually indicates that some type of work is planned for the day.
I called my assistant over for a conference. “Drover, circulate around, sniff things out, keep your ears open. Something’s going on around here.”
“I thought so.”
I glared at the runt. “Maybe you thought so, but I thought so first. Don’t forget who’s in charge around here.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Now get going. I’ll expect a full report.”
“Okay, Hankie, here I go!” And off he went.
I had my doubts that he would turn up any good leads, but when you’re short-handed, you have to use whatever warm bodies happen to be available. Drover was what you would call your Basic Warm Body.
I slipped around the pickups and trailers and checked things out, marked a few tires, kept my eyes and ears open, continued gathering data and amassing clues. When High Loper came down from the house, wearing his summer leggins and big-rowel spurs, I had enough evidence to come up with a Working Hypothenus . . .
Hypotenuse. Hypodermicus. Hyrolysis. What is the dadgummed word? Hippopotamus.
. . . I had turned up enough evidence to form a Working Hippopotamus: Without consulting me, the cowboys had decided to roundup and brand one of the pastures. Furthermore, they had invited strangers to come onto the ranch to help, with the work—again, without consulting me.