Murder in the Middle Pasture

by John R. Erickson

  Why had she opened both the doors? Why had she left the back door open? Was she trying to tell me something? Was it possible that . . . ?

  I studied on that. It finally dawned on me that she was giving me an opportunity to go on the trip with them. What else could it mean?

  Women are pretty subtle. They don’t always come out and tell you what’s on their minds. Often they will say one thing and then turn around and do another. A guy has to stay alert and interpret the signs.

  Why did she want me to go with them on the trip? Maybe by the time she reached the car, she’d thought things over and decided she wanted extra protection for the baby. That made sense. I mean, it’s common knowledge that in spite of our gruff exterior, we cowdogs are very protective of children.

  Well, I can tell you that I had other things to do. I had about two weeks’ work lined up and going off on a trip really didn’t fit into my program. But a guy can’t ignore the call of duty.

  If Sally May wanted me to go, by George I had to go. So I hopped into the car and sat down in the backseat.

  Her eyes came up and stabbed me. Her nostrils flared. “Get your dirty paws out of my car! Scat, shoo! Loper, come get your dog out of the backseat!”

  Huh?

  Loper appeared at the door. “Dang it, Hank, get out of the car.”

  Now wait a minute . . .

  “Come on, boy, out. Don’t we have enough trouble getting away on a trip without you?”

  I whapped my tail on the seat and looked from one face to the other. I didn’t know what to do.

  “He’s getting mud all over the seat!”

  “Hank, for crying out loud! Come on, get out.”

  Loper reached in, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, and pitched me into the snow. He aimed a boot at my tail end, but I got out of the way, just in time.

  I don’t know how you please these people. One minute they want you to . . . never mind.

  At last they got the baby and the luggage loaded. Slim came out to say good-bye. “Y’all have a good time, and don’t worry about the ranch. Me and Hank’ll take care of everything.”

  Loper laughed and shook his head. I didn’t see anything funny about that.

  “Keep an eye on those heavy heifers. They’ll start calving any day now. And try to keep the house halfway nice. We don’t want to come home to a wreck.”

  “You just have a good Christmas and don’t worry about a thing,” said Slim.

  They shook hands and Loper climbed into the car. As he was backing out the driveway, Loper looked at me and shook his head. I wagged my tail and barked the car all the way up to the county road.

  The car tires rumbled over the cattle guard and they were gone. I trotted back down to the house. Big soft flakes of snow were falling from the . . . well, from the sky, of course. I was ready to knock off and get some sleep, but on my way down to the gas tanks I heard a terrible racket up at the machine shed.

  It sounded like a dogfight. One of the dogs involved was Drover, and unless my ears de­ceived me, he was coming out on the short end of the tussle.

  Chapter Three: Outlaws on the Ranch

  I loped up the hill to the machine shed. By the time I got there, the fight was over. Drover had disappeared, and standing over our dog bowl (actually, it was an old Ford hubcap turned upside down) was a dog I’d never seen before.

  He was eating our dog food.

  I didn’t like his looks. He was a big dude—tall, pretty wide in the shoulders but skinny everywhere else, covered with long scruffy hair, had a notch out of his left ear and dark spots around his eyes. I couldn’t tell about his breeding. Appeared to me he might have had a little German police, a little cowdog, and maybe a touch of greyhound in him.

  He looked pretty rough, but what bothered me most about him was the way he’d made himself at home with our dog food. Instead of running away when he saw me coming, he raised his head, glared at me, and went back to eating.

  “I’m borrowing some of your dog food, pal. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “A lot of dogs ask permission before they move in and eat someone else’s food.”

  He shrugged. “You was busy.”

  “You could have waited.”

  “I was hungry.” He stopped chewing and lifted his head. “Anyways, I don’t like to beg.”

  “Asking and begging are two different things.”

  “I’ll remember that.” He went on with his eating.

  I walked around in front of him, sizing him up. “I’ll need to check your identification.”

  He laughed at that. “Identification! Who do you think you are, pal?”

  “Hank the Cowdog, Head of Ranch Security.”

  He stopped chewing and studied me. “So what do you want me to do? Faint?”

  “You can start with your name.”

  “Buster.”

  “Where are you from and what are you doing on this ranch?”

  “Let’s just say that I’m from a place where it ain’t polite to ask too many questions, and I’m passing through.”

  “How long you plan to be on the ranch?”

  “Until I leave.”

  “In that case, you won’t be here long. Finish your meal and move on.”

  He leaned his head toward me. “Shove off, cowdog. You’re liable to give me indigestion.”

  I didn’t like that and my first instinct was to jump him. But I held back. “Where’s Drover?

  ”

  “Who? Oh, the flunky? I slapped him around a little bit and he hid in the barn.” He arched his brows. “That ain’t a bad idea, hiding in the barn when Buster comes around. A lot of dogs didn’t and they ain’t with us anymore. Study your lessons on that, pal.”

  I walked up to him and stared him in the eyes. “It’s time for you to hit the road. We don’t have a place for stray dogs.”

  “Stray dogs!” He threw his head back and laughed at that. “Hey boys, did you hear that? The Head of Ranch Security thinks we’re stray dogs!”

  All at once the weeds at the west end of the machine shed moved and out stepped three more dogs. They weren’t as big as Buster, but they looked just as tough and scroungy. At that same moment, Drover’s nose poked out the machine shed door.

  “Hank, be careful! He’s got a gang with him.”

  “Thanks a lot, Drover. As usual, your timing wasn’t too swift.”

  The thugs swaggered out of the weeds and formed a semi-circle behind Buster. One of them, a short stocky dog with one of those pushed-in bulldog-type faces, spoke up.

  “I’ll take him, boss, just say the word.”

  “Easy, Muggs. I’m still eating my breakfast.” He took another bite and looked around. “Pretty nice layout you got here. If I was inclined to honest work, I might be interested in this job. But I ain’t much inclined to honest work, am I Muggs?”

  Muggs thought that was funny. “Har, har, har! You sure ain’t, boss. You’re the most dangerous killer and thief in Ochiltree County.”

  Buster glanced at me. “You hear that, pal? This is your lucky day. You’re in the presence of a living legend. You got any cats around here?”

  “Maybe and maybe not. Why?”

  “I’m still hungry. And when I’m hungry I get mad easy. Muggs, scout around and see if you can find me a cat.”

  “Sure, boss.” Muggs stepped out but I moved into his path.

  “Hold it right there. Any cats on this ranch belong to me. We’ve got no free cats.”

  Muggs stopped. “Hey, boss, the jerk says he’s got no free cats. You want that I should slap him around?”

  Buster came over to where I was. “Listen, pal, maybe you didn’t understand. See, I’m very dangerous. I got this terrible temper and when I don’t get my way I just lose my head. Just ask Muggsie about it.” There was a moment of silence. “Go o
n, Muggs, tell him.”

  “You told him to ask, boss, and he didn’t ask.”

  “Okay, so ask him something, pal.”

  “All right,” I said. “Muggs, do you know the difference between a duck?”

  “Uh . . . a duck and what?”

  “Just a duck, that’s all.”

  “Naw. What’s the difference between a duck?”

  “One leg’s the same.”

  The other two guys laughed at that. Muggs glanced over at them and then his eyes came back to me.

  “I don’t get that, man. Is that a joke or something?”

  “You didn’t get it?”

  “Naw . . . well . . . uh say the last part one more time.”

  “One leg’s the same.”

  “Oh yeah! Har, har, har. Yeah, one leg’s the same, okay, I get it now.” Muggs and the other two laughed it up. But Buster didn’t.

  “Hey Muggs? That was a stupid joke. You laughed at a stupid joke. It’s stupid to laugh at stupid jokes.” He came over to me and poked me in the chest with his paw. “You’re making my boys look stupid, pal. Now tell me where the cats are.”

  “I told you. We got no free cats.”

  “Okay, Muggs. He’s all yours. Work him over.”

  “Sure, boss.” Muggs rolled his shoulders and pawed the snow. “You’re gonna get it now, fella, ’cause you made me laugh at a stupid joke.”

  “Hey Muggs, have you heard the latest knock-knock joke?”

  “Naw, how’s it go?”

  “Well, you say knock-knock.”

  “Okay. Uh, knock-knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Uh . . . Muggs.”

  “Muggs who?”

  He stared at me for a long time. “Uh . . . Muggs the dog.”

  I shook my head. “That wasn’t so good, Muggs. Let’s try another one.”

  “Okay. Knock-knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “What do I say now?”

  “What-do-I-say-now who?”

  “No, no, uh time out for a minute. What do I say now?”

  “That wasn’t so good either. Let’s try another one. Knock knock.”

  “Uh, who’s there?”

  “Drover.”

  “Drover who?”

  “Drover, run get Slim and hurry.” I cackled. “You didn’t get that? DROVER, RUN GET SLIM AND HURRY, get it?”

  “Oh-h-h-h, yeah, I get it now, okay. Har, har, har.”

  Buster had been listening but hadn’t said a word or cracked a smile. “Wait a minute, wise guy. I don’t get it. What do you mean ‘run get slim and hurry’?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Drover slink out of the machine shed. I moved in closer to Buster so he wouldn’t notice.

  “Well, slim means trim, thin, un-fat, skinny. You might say that a pencil is slim but not a watermelon. Get it?”

  “Naw. I think you’re telling another stupid joke.”

  “All right, let’s try another one. Knock-knock.”

  Muggs started to answer but Buster stopped him. “Back off, Muggs, I’ll handle this myself. Who’s there?”

  “Thereesa.”

  “Thereesa who?”

  I shot a glance over my shoulder and saw Slim walking up the hill. “Thereesa cowboy coming this way and he hates stray dogs.”

  Muggs and the other two laughed. I guess they would have laughed at anything. But Buster just glared at me. “I still don’t get it, pal, and I’m sick of your stupid jokes.”

  “Hey boss,” said Muggs in a whisper. “There IS a cowboy coming. It ain’t no joke.”

  “Then why were you laughing, you idiot!”

  Muggs hung his head. “I don’t know. It seemed funny at the time, and the other guys laughed too.”

  “You’re all idiots. Okay, wise guy,” he turned to me, “you won this round but we’ll meet again. You’ll be sorry, pal, believe me. Come on, boys, let’s scatter!”

  They took off in a high lope, streaked past the hay lot, and then headed north toward the canyons.

  When Slim got to the machine shed, he took off his hat and scratched his head, as if he couldn’t figure out what Drover had gotten so excited about. Then he saw the empty hub cap and said, “Oh, you’re out of food.”

  He filled it up and went back to work.

  Me and Drover stayed in front of the machine shed. He was shivering again. “Well, Drover, what do you have to say for yourself? You let me walk right into a trap. I could have been mauled by those apes. Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “Well . . . I tried.”

  “You tried to disappear, is what you tried to do. You ran into the machine shed to save your own skin. Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t write this up and put it in your file?”

  “Well . . . my leg was hurting.”

  “That’ll sound good in my report, son: ‘He let four stray dogs take over the ranch but his leg was hurting.’ Do you think you could get a job on another ranch with that kind of report?”

  He lowered his head and started crying. “I was scared, Hank, I was just terrified. You don’t understand. You’ve never been a little mutt. Oh Hank, don’t write me up!”

  “What else can I do? What would you do if you were Head of Security and found that you had a chicken-hearted little mutt on your staff?”

  “Well . . . I’d make him stand in the corner for two whole hours.”

  “Two hours, huh? That might . . .”

  “And I’d make him stand in the corner in the machine shed.”

  “Why the machine shed?”

  “Because it has corners, four of ’em.”

  “Hmm. That’s true. A guy can’t stand in the corner if there isn’t a corner.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “I know that’s what you mean. That’s what I said.”

  “I know that’s what you said that’s what I mean. That’s what I said.”

  “No, that’s what I said, and on this ranch what I say is what counts. Now get your little self into the machine shed and stand in the corner for two hours.”

  “Oh Hank, not the machine shed!”

  “Yes, the machine shed. And while you’re standing in the corner, I want you to think about Life.”

  “Life?”

  “Yes sir, every bit of it.”

  “Okay, Hank, but this seems awful cruel.” He walked through the snow and into the machine shed.

  I went on down to the corrals to make the rounds, check things out. Maybe it was cruel, making little Drover stand in the corner for two whole hours, but handing out stern sentences just goes with the territory when you’re Head of Ranch Security.

  Chapter Four: Attacked by a Horned Moron

  Ordinarily, Slim stayed in a little camp house down the creek a ways, but Sally May and Loper must have asked him to stay in their place while they were gone on the trip.

  Well, that afternoon, while Drover was doing his time in the machine shed corner, I went with Slim and helped him with the feeding. We fed alfalfa hay to those cattle up in the north pastures.

  Slim loaded most of the hay. Actually, he loaded all of the hay, but when he got down to the bottom tier of bales, I made a hand. Every time he moved one of the bottom bales, I was right there, ready to pounce on the rats that lived there.

  It’s pretty impressive, what I can do to a rat. I mean, the human race has spent hundreds of years looking for a better mousetrap, but in the rat department the whole matter was settled the day cowdogs were invented.

  There’s no better rat killer than a highly trained, highly conditioned, highly intelligent cowdog.

  In just a matter of minutes, I notched up four head of rats and also got bit on the lip, which is something a rat will do, bite the tar out of you, and it takes
a little of the fun out of it. But I’ve never been the kind of dog who worried much about his lips.

  We got the hay loaded. As I recall, it was stacked about five-high on the pickup, and as usual I scrambled up to the top of the load. That’s where I ride. A lot of dogs will try to weasel their way into the cab and ride inside where it’s warm. Me, I’ve always figgered that I could do more good up on top where I can see the country and, you know, keep an eye on things.

  Sure, it’s cold up there but that’s just the price you pay for being on top. I mean, if you can’t take it maybe you ought to look around for a bird dog job.

  So off we went, driving north into a stiff north wind. That wind was colder than you might suppose. It cut me clean to the bone, and fellers, I was freezing my tail off! It was a good thing Drover hadn’t come along. He’d have been moaning and crying and . . .

  Whose idea had it been for Drover to stand in the corner in the machine shed where it was warm and dry? Surely it had been my idea because I’m not easily swayed by what others say, but on the other hand . . .

  I was freezing my frazzling tail off in that wind—oh, it must have been sweeping down them canyons at seventy, eighty miles an hour, and I’m talking about blowing snow and icicles and slow death along with it, the kind of creeping cold that can freeze the tongue in your mouth and turn your insides into a solid block of ice in a matter of minutes.

  So when Slim stopped the pickup and got out to open the middle pasture gate, I staggered off the load and . . . well, decided that I could serve the ranch better by helping Slim with the driving.

  I wouldn’t call that weaseling a ride. There’s certain times and certain situations when . . .

  Look, I wouldn’t have done the ranch any good if I’d stayed up there and got myself froze into a solid block of ice. Sometimes a guy has to compromise his principles, but there’s a difference between compromising and weaseling a ride.

  Anyway, Slim needed help with the driving. He’d get to looking for cattle and forget to watch the road. He went into the ditch three times and hit several holes. Good thing I was there or we might have ended up at the bottom of a canyon.