Murder in the Middle Pasture

by John R. Erickson

  Old Wallace glared over the ledge. “Yes, come back when you can’t stay so long, and bring some supper.”

  I was very tempted to exit with a slashing, witty reply, but since the old reprobate was armed and dangerous, I decided against it.

  Down in the canyon bottom again, I sniffed the air and got my bearings. At last report, the coyote village had been located further north, up the middle branch of the canyon. I lit out in that direction.

  The snow crunched under my feet and my breath made steam in the air. It was mighty derned cold, and had I been investigating any crime less serious than murder, I might have turned around and headed for the house. But duty called, and I kept moving.

  Must have gone another quarter mile, up where the canyon narrows and the walls go straight up and there’s big boulders all around, and that’s where I heard voices. I stopped and listened. In the still night air, I heard yipping and howling and whooping and laughing . . . or should I say laughter and yipter and howlter and whoopter?

  Anyway, there was no mistake this time. I had found the coyote village.

  I crept forward, one snow-crunching step at a time, until I dared go no farther. I took cover behind a huge boulder and slipped around the side until I had a good view.

  And there, in a clearing not twenty feet from where I crouched, were twenty of the most dangerous coyotes in Ochiltree County.

  This was the same tribe of wild nomads I had once lived with when, in the folly of my youth, I had considered becoming a wild dog and an outlaw. I had adopted their culture and language and had been on the point of committing marriage with the chief’s lovely daughter, Missy Coyote, when I had returned to my senses and discovered an ancient piece of cowdog wisdom: cowdogs and coyotes don’t mix.

  We’re natural enemies, born on different sides of the law, and as the old saying goes, “Never the twangs shall meet.” Exactly what a “twang” is, I never figgered out, but I will say this. If a guy was ever tempted to forget his twang and throw in with a bunch of stinking savages, he’d do it for Missy Coyote.

  And understand, this observation comes from a seasoned professional cowdog who doesn’t ordinarily allow himself to be distracted by women. So there you are.

  I studied the faces down below and recognized several of them. There was old Chief Many-Rabbit-Gut-Eat-in-Full-Moon, the rowdy brothers, Rip and Snort, and over on the edge of the crowd . . .

  Mercy! My old heart was made of cast iron but derned if it didn’t start acting silly when I saw her lovely face. Missy was just as pretty as I’d remembered her. All at once I got weak in the legs and swimmy in the head, and there for a minute I thought that wicked old heart of mine was going to take out a couple of ribs, it was pounding so hard.

  Old Chief Gut was seated on a rock, telling a story about . . . couldn’t hear every word so I kind of had to patch it together. Sounded as if the story came from his youth, back before he got old and crippled up and lost two toes in a fight with a badger and got a notch bit out of his left ear.

  The story had something to do with running a jackrabbit. It must have been funny because every now and then the whole bunch of ’em would bust out laughing—everyone but Missy. Over on the edge of the crowd, she smiled but didn’t laugh. No doubt she’d heard the story several dozen times already.

  That was one thing about Old Man Gut I remembered. His stories were pretty good the first time around, but the third, fourth, and fifth times they got a little stale. But you know what? His poor old wife laughed every time, just as though she’d never heard them before. Now that’s real devotion.

  I was focused in on Missy’s pretty face when all at once it struck me that someone was missing: Missy’s brother Scraunch, the meanest, boldest, strongest, dangerousest, chicken-killingest, rotten-meat-lovingest coyote in the whole village, and perhaps the entire world.

  I mean, Scraunch was BAD NEWS, fellers. I knew because I’d tangled with him on several occasions and I’d been lucky to escape with my life and both ears intact. I didn’t exactly cherish the idea of going against him again, but he was a prime suspect in my investigation and I had to find him.

  It was also kind of crucial that I spotted him before he spotted me. The element of surprise can be very surprising when the other guy uses it first. In going against Scraunch, I would not only need the element of surprise but other elements as well, such as plain old luck.

  I searched the faces in the crowd again, just to be sure I hadn’t missed him. Sure enough, he wasn’t there.

  Where could he be? Had he died in battle? Had the tribe run him off? Or was he at that very moment down in the home pasture, stalking some poor innocent calf and plotting another dastardly murder?

  Yes, of course! Suddenly it all fit together. I had fallen for the oldest trick in the coyote book of old tricks. I had been duped and lured up into the canyons, while the villain Scraunch had slipped down to headquarters to kill another calf!

  How could I have been so dense, so easily fooled! I had taken the gambit and now . . . I had to get back down to headquarters, double-quick, or else I would have another murder on my hands.

  I turned to leave . . . and looked right square in the sharp-nosed, yellow-eyed face of Scraunch the Terrible.

  Chapter Ten: Confused, Captured, and Condemned

  “So,” said Scraunch in a deep and cruel voice, “we meet again at last.” And he was grinning. Did I mention that? Yes, grinning, which sort of unnerved me.

  “Yes indeed, we meet again at last,” I managed, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Long time Scraunch dream revenge-make on Chicken Dog.”

  “On whom?”

  “Chicken Dog.”

  “Oh, I guess that means . . . uh, me, you might say.” His head moved up and down. “I thought maybe that’s what you meant. You always did call me Chicken Dog, didn’t you?” He nodded. “I never did care much for that name, Scraunch, but by George if that’s what you want to call me . . . Listen, I know you probably have a few questions to ask me, but I think I can explain everything.”

  His head moved from side to side. “Scraunch not have question.”

  “Oh. Not even one? Well, in that case, maybe you could give me one small piece of information.”

  “Scraunch not give information.”

  “It’s very small, tiny, little bitty. I was wondering where you were on the night of . . .”

  “Chicken Dog not talk. Chicken Dog march into village.”

  “Into the village. That’s, uh, right over there, I guess you mean, where the rest of your thieving . . . uh, your kinfolks are, is probably what you’re saying, but I have another suggestion, Scraunch. Would you consider . . . now I know this is going to sound a little outrageous but hear me out . . . would you consider going down to headquarters with me and answering a few questions?”

  He raised his lips and showed me his teeth. It was a good set, long, white, and very sharp. “Chicken Dog want die now or later?”

  “Is there a third choice?”

  “No third choice.”

  “Well, in that case uh . . . let’s save it till later.”

  “Move!”

  “All right, all right.” We started down to the village. I considered making a break for freedom, but with Scraunch right behind me I knew I wouldn’t stand a chance. He would have been on me like a duck on a junebug. I had to play for time, pick up all the information I could, and hope that a miracle might save me.

  (I might point out here that hoping for miracles wasn’t a common cowdog stratagem. I had seldom used it in my work, but then I had seldom found myself in such a mess.)

  “Say Scraunch, you know what would really hit the spot right now? A nice warm piece of veal. You had any good veal lately?”

  No answer.

  “You’re a very serious fellow, Scraunch. Any­body eve
r tell you that it’s hard to carry on a conversation with you?”

  No answer.

  “The trouble with you coyotes is that you’ve got no sense of humor. Were you aware that too much seriousness can cause cancer?”

  No answer.

  “I guess not.”

  No answer.

  “And furthermore, you probably don’t even care.”

  No answer.

  “One more small item, Scraunch, and then I’ll be quiet.”

  “Be quiet!”

  “Okay, I can handle that.”

  We marched into the coyote village. When Chief Gut saw me, his mouth froze open and he stared. The rest of the coyotes turned and stared. A rustle of whispers spread through the crowd.

  A smile bloomed on Chief Gut’s mouth. “Ah ha! Oh foolish dog to walk into coyote village on cold cold night. Berry berry foolish you come back.”

  I walked up to him. “Thanks, Chief Gut, and it’s great to see you again too. Listen, I can’t stay long but while I’m here, I’d like to say a few words to your people.”

  That must have caught him by surprise. Before he could say anything, I turned to the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, children, honored guests, members of the committee, Madame Secre­tary, Chief Gut: It is indeed a pleasure for me to be here tonight to accept this honor. It’s impossible for me to tell you how much this means to me . . .”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Chief Gut staring at me with a kind of perplexed look. Then Scraunch came over and they conferred in low voices.

  I went on talking. I mean, what else could I do? I was buying time.

  “I probably don’t deserve this award, and as I stand before you tonight, I’m reminded of all the dogs who helped me along the way. Without their help and encouragement, I wouldn’t be here. So let me pause here to thank them all: my mother, my father, my brothers, my sisters, my uncles, my aunts, my cousins, my second cousins, my grandmother, my . . .”

  Chief Gut came over and cut me off. “Hunk not understand. We not give award.”

  I looked at him. “What?”

  “Hunk not understand. We not give award.”

  “What?”

  He cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Hunk not understand! We not give award!”

  “What!”

  He took a big gulp of air and bellered, “HUNK NOT UNDERSTAND! WE NOT GIVE AWARD! AND HUNK BETTER CLEAN OUT EARS AND LISTEN!”

  “No award? Are you serious?”

  “Berry berry serious.”

  “Hey, wait a minute, hold everything. I was told that I had been voted Dog of the Year.”

  The chief went back to Scraunch and they held another conference. I could hear them muttering. Scraunch appeared to be a little upset. Chief Gut came back to me.

  “No. We not have Dog of Year award. We not like dog.”

  “You mean I came all the way into this canyon for nothing? After I went to the trouble of walking here in the snow, you’re not going to give me my award?”

  “That right. No award.”

  “Well I never . . . This is an outrage! This is a crime against decency! I demand a recount!” Gut shook his head. “Very well, if that’s the way you want it, that’s the way it’ll be. You leave me with no choice but to walk out of here in disgrace. So good night, ladies and gentlemen, good night members of the committee, I’ll be going.”

  I hoped they might be so surprised by this craziness that they would let me go. The coyotes in the audience seemed confused about it all, and they whispered back and forth. Chief Gut shook his head and tried to explain to his wife what was going on. I stalked off the platform and threaded my way through the audience.

  I had almost made it to the other side, where I could turn on a burst of speed and make a run for the ranch, when I heard Scraunch’s booming voice: “Halt! Stop that dog!”

  Suddenly two big bruisers stepped into my path and showed me their teeth. I recognized them: Rip and Snort, my semi-pals. In better days, we had been singing partners and drinking buddies. Unfortunately, I had pulled a few nasty tricks on them and I wasn’t sure just how solid a friendship we had.

  “Hi, fellers. Any chance you’d let me pass?” They shook their heads. “I guess you’re working for Scraunch now, huh?” They nodded their heads. “And probably the good times we’ve had together don’t amount to much.” They shook their heads. “So the bottom line is that I’m sort of trapped?” They nodded.

  I turned around and marched back up to the front.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. I have a very important announcement to make.” The crowd fell silent. Over to my left, old Gut was still explaining things to his wife. I turned to him. “Sir, please. I’ve asked for silence. Ladies and gentlemen, members of the committee, honored guests: Because of circumstances beyond my control, I have no choice but to reveal my true identity and tell you why I am here tonight.”

  Dead silence. Every yellow coyote eye was locked on me.

  The following information will probably shock you. It might also frighten some of the children. I ask that you remain calm, and at the conclusion of this shocking announcement, you should rise and go quietly back to your homes.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I have penetrated your security apparatus and infiltrated your village for one purpose: I am here to arrest one of your tribesmen on the charge of calf murder.”

  The crowd buzzed at that.

  “Now, if you will turn the guilty party over to me and return to your homes, we can settle this matter without violence and bloodshed.”

  I waited for someone to name the murderer. Instead, some yokel on the front row started laughing. The laughter spread like a grassfire in a high wind. Within seconds, the entire coyote village was roaring—everyone, that is, but Missy. She had her head twisted to the side and there was a puzzled smile on her lips, as if she were thinking, “What is this dog talking about!”

  Well, the laughter went on for several minutes. Them coyotes were falling on the ground, rolling on their backs, kicking their legs in the air, slapping each other on the back, the whole nine yards. In other words, they had misinterpreted my announcement.

  Chief Gut came up on the rock and whopped me on the back. “Berry good, yes, Hunk berry funny. We not laugh so much in long long time.”

  “Well, thank you, Chief. You’ve been a wonderful audience.”

  “Oh how funny, joke about we kill calf.”

  “You liked that one?”

  “Oh boy, funny funny, because we not kill calf.”

  “Huh? You . . . well, of course I knew . . . are you sure about that?”

  “Wild dogs kill calf. That berry berry funny to coyote.”

  That got the crowd in an uproar again. They laughed and howled and slapped the ground.

  At last the pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. I had suspected all along that Buster’s gang of wild dogs had been behind the killing, but I’d had no proof. Now I had my proof. My mission was a success and I had solved the case.

  “Well, thanks for everything, Chief. I guess I’d better be getting back to the ranch.”

  “Oh no! We have big celebration at sunrise.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, big BIG celebration. You stay.”

  “Maybe some other time.”

  “You stay!”

  “Oh what the heck, I’ll stay. What are we celebrating?”

  “We celebrate Hunk die when sun come up, oh boy!”

  Oh boy, my foot! Fellers, I was in trouble up to my eyebrows, and I didn’t know how I was going to get out of this one.

  Chapter Eleven: Locked in a Dismal Cave, Escape Impossible

  Scraunch raised his paw and Rip and Snort came to take me away. They marched me off to a dismal cave in the side of a cliff. As I
was leaving, I caught a glimpse of Missy.

  Her face was an island of sadness in a sea of merriment.

  Rip and Snort threw me in the cave and sat down in front of the opening. I sat down several feet away from them. I couldn’t situate myself any farther back because there was a packrat’s nest at the rear of the cave.

  As you might know, packrats build a mound of cow chips, sticks, pieces of sagebrush, and so forth, and then cover the mound with cactus petals. I didn’t need any cactus in my tail, thank you.

  For a long time we just sat there staring at each other—they with the kind of dull, brutish expressions you would expect in dull, brutish coyote warriors.

  Well, I had to make a move, and fast.

  “May I ask a personal question?” No re­sponse. “Have you guys ever considered taking a bribe?” They shook their heads. “There are many advantages to a well-planned bribe program. You ought to think about the future, your families, what happens when you’re gone.”

  No response. “I think we could work out a real fine program. Let’s see now. How do you feel about dog food—kernels, very tasty, wonderful stuff?” No. “All right, let’s talk about bones. We could probably come up with a dozen of the smelliest bones you ever saw.” No. “I’d let you bathe in my sewer. I mean, I’d be willing to throw that in as an extra.”

  No deal. These guys weren’t too smart but they were double tough.

  “All right, forget the bribes. Let’s talk about the brotherhood of all animals. I’m sure that strikes a responsive chord . . .” They shook their heads. “Or maybe it doesn’t. Okay, let’s put all the cards on the table. I’m in a jam, fellers, I need to get out of here. Can you think of any way you might let me escape?”

  They shook their heads.

  “You don’t have to decide right this minute. I don’t want you to make any hasty decisions. Take your time, think it over, and . . .” They shook their heads. “What about the good times we’ve shared? The singing, the laughing. Isn’t that worth . . .” They shook their heads. “You guys are heartless, do you realize that?” Yes, they did. “Just big hairy shells without hearts or souls or . . .”