The Case of the Secret Weapon

by John R. Erickson

  “Come on. I’m fixing to show you how to behave when you’re wealthy and influential.” He held the screen door open for us, and we all moved out on the porch.

  It wasn’t much of a porch because . . . well, it wasn’t much of a house, but the porch had a nice view of the creek and it was big enough to hold one man, two dogs, and a couple of chairs. Slim flopped down in one of the chairs, slurped his coffee, and gazed out at the little world in front of his house.

  “Dogs, life don’t get any better than this—sitting on the porch in your underwear, drink­-ing coffee, and listening to the birds. Shucks, it’s a cowboy’s dream.” He thought about that for a moment. “You know, a guy could make a song out of that. What would y’all think if I sang you a song? Would you like that?”

  I was stunned. Another of his corny songs?

  We’ve discussed Slim’s singing, right? I’m sure we have, because this had happened before. See, he comes up with these silly songs, and who or whom do you suppose has to listen to them?

  Us. His dogs. I mean, we work hard, try to do our jobs and be loyal friends, but the terrible truth is that WE DON’T LIKE HIS MUSIC. There, I’ve said it. He’s a nice man, but our lives would be complete if we didn’t have to listen to his pathetic little songs.

  I shot a glance at Drover and saw that he had a look of pain on his face. He whispered, “I guess we’re trapped.”

  “I guess we’re not. Let’s see if we can slip out of here.”

  Drover grinned. “I never thought of that. Maybe he won’t notice.”

  “Shhh. We’ll have to be as quiet as a mouse.”

  “Yeah, or two mice, ’cause there’s two of us.”

  “Good point. We’ll be as quiet as two mice.”

  Without making a sound, we lifted our respective bodies off the porch and began oozing away from the guy who was fixing to destroy the morning silence with so-called music. If we could make it to the porch steps, we might be able to slither ourselves into the cedar shrubs and vanish without a . . .

  “Hey! Come back here!”

  We froze in our tracks, only inches away from the first step to Freedom. Drover rolled his eyes around to me. “Uh-oh, what do we do now?”

  “We got caught, and we have to face the music. Let’s get it over with and try to look professional.”

  Holding our heads at a professional angle, we marched back to Slim’s chair and into the glare of his eyes. He was scowling, don’t you see, and he grumbled, “Where did y’all think you were going? Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  I went to Slow Puzzled Wags on the tail section, as if to say, “Oh. Did you say something? Gosh, I guess we didn’t hear.”

  “I’m fixing to sing a song.”

  With great effort, I shifted my tail section into Oh-Boy Wags. Over to my right, Drover fluttered his stub tail, and we both molded our faces into an expression we call Devoted Doggie.

  Slim darted back into the house and returned with his five-string banjo. Like it or not, we were fixing to hear his song.

  Chapter Three: Slim Sits on the Porch in His Shorts

  Did I mention that Slim had bought a banjo and was learning to play? It’s true, and it came about because his lady friend, Miss Viola, had bought herself a mandolin and thought it would be fun if they got together once in a while and played music.

  Viola was a pretty good musician. Slim was . . . how can I say this? He tried, he really did, and sometimes it sounded okay, but he still had some work to do before he mastered the bluegrass style of picking.

  Anyway, we crept back on the porch and Slim smiled. “That’s better. Sit down.” We sat. “Now, this is kind of a special occasion. It ain’t often that I come up with a song this early in the morning.”

  I shot a glance at Drover. He was trying to be brave and so was I.

  Slim continued. “Now, y’all pretend you’re at Corn Eggly Hall in New York City. You’re all dressed up, wearing tuxedos and black ties and them tall hats.”

  Oh brother.

  “You’re inside this huge auditorium, see, and it’s jam-packed with people who’ve paid a hundred bucks apiece to hear the singing sensation from the Texas Panhandle.”

  This was so childish. I couldn’t believe he was doing it.

  He rose to his feet. “They turn off the house lights, and the place goes dark. A spotlight shines on the stage. Ten thousand people hold their breath, and I mean nobody says a word. Then . . .”—he extended his hand and raised it slowly—“. . . the curtain rises and there he is! Slim Chance, the singing cowboy from Wolf Creek! He’s wearing one of them coats like Porter Waggoner wears, with all that glitter-and-sparkle stuff. What do you call it?”

  Could we get on with this?

  “Spangles or jangles or sequins, stuff that glitters in the spotlight, see, and it tells you that this old boy didn’t just fall off a truckload of turnips. He’s a big star, and the place goes wild. They’re all on their feet, clapping their hands and yelling their heads off.”

  This was the wrong time to scratch a flea, but at that very moment I got drilled in the left armpit and HAD to do something about it. I cranked up my left hind leg and began hacking.

  Slim beamed me a ferocious look. “Hey! Sit still and pay attention, we’re coming to the good part.”

  Sorry.

  “You’ve got no more manners than a goat.”

  I said I was sorry.

  Slim returned to his little drama. “Okay, dogs, the audience claps and cheers for a whole minute, then the place gets quiet and everybody sits down. The Star looks out at the crowd and says, ‘Thank you so very much, and now I’m going to sing y’all a song that comes straight from my heart. I wrote it myself, and I want to dedicate it to my momma back in Texas.’”

  Oh brother!

  And with that, Slim Chance sat down in his chair, put the banjo in his lap, and burst into song—wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a tee shirt, with nobody listening except a couple of dogs who couldn’t escape. Here’s the song, in case you’re interested.

  Sitting on the Porch in My Shorts

  Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

  Loafing outside in my underwear.

  Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

  Who’d want to be anywhere else but here?

  A man’s home is his castle, where he goes to escape the stress

  Of a steady job and a gripey boss and fixing another mess on the ranch.

  A job’s okay if you do it right and don’t get carried away.

  When it’s time to loaf, be serious about it, get started early in the day.

  Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

  Loafing outside in my underwear.

  Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

  Who’d want to be anywhere else but here?

  If I was Commodore Vanderbilt, with all that railroad stock,

  Do you suppose I’d grab a hammer and go to busting rock?

  Heck no, I’d be on the porch of the Biltmore, listening to the frogs,

  Getting a tan on my skinny legs and singing to my dogs. I’d sing . . .

  Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

  Loafing outside in my underwear.

  Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

  Who’d want to be anywhere else but here?

  Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

  Loafing outside in my underwear.

  Sitting on the porch in my shorts.

  Who’d want to be anywhere else?

  Who’d want to be anywhere else?

  I’d want to be right here.

  Can you believe a grown man would do such a thing? I thought it was very strange, but I learned long ago to keep my opinions to myself. These people don’t want to know what their dogs think—about music or anything else. We do what we have to do to keep our job
s, and sometimes that can be pretty embarrassing.

  But there was a funny part to the story. See, old Slim thought he was all alone in the world, performing a ridiculous little song two miles from the nearest human.

  Heh heh. Foolish man. See, halfway through the song, I heard a vehicle pull up behind his house, then the slam of a car door. Old Slim was onstage in New York City and didn’t hear a thing.

  And he didn’t see the visitor coming up to the house. I did. I could have barked a warning but decided . . . why bother? If these people don’t want to listen to their dogs, by George they can live with the consequences.

  You want to guess who it was? Heh heh. Chief Deputy Bobby Kile from the Ochiltree County Sheriff’s Department, a very important man. If you were going to make a fool of yourself, you might not want to do it in front of a deputy sheriff.

  He approached the house. When he saw what was going on, he stopped and listened to the song. His face showed about what you’d expect. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing and hearing. Then a nasty little smile slithered across his mouth, and he sneaked back to his car.

  Now it gets really funny. When Slim finished his song, he smiled at us dogs, took a bow, and said, “What do you think about that, huh? Ain’t that about the cutest little song you ever . . .”

  At that very moment, the silence was shattered by the loud scream of a police siren.

  You talk about SHOCKED. Slim Chance looked as though he’d backed into an electric fence. All the blood drained out of his face, and his eyes popped wide open. He whirled around and saw a man in uniform approaching the house. At that point, a gurgling sound came out of his mouth. I think he said, “Good honk!”

  When he recognized Deputy Kile, he slumped into his chair and stared straight ahead with glazed eyes. The deputy placed a booted foot on the porch, looked up at the sky, and said, “Morning, Slim.” Slim said nothing. “Do you live like this all the time?”

  Slim’s gaze slid around to the sheriff. “Bobby, this ain’t funny. You almost gave me a heart attack with that si-reen.”

  The deputy laughed for a solid minute, while Slim’s face turned a deep shade of red. At last he was able to speak. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.” He went into another sputtering fit of laughter. He staggered up on the porch and fell into a chair beside Slim’s.

  Slim gave him a sour look. “Well, I hope you enjoyed it. You just about ruined my whole week.”

  “Were you singing to the dogs?”

  Slim pulled himself into a stiff pose. “I certainly was, and it ain’t the first time either. By grabs, this is America and if a man wants to sing to his dogs, he can do it.”

  The deputy nodded, still smiling.

  “Every patriotic American ought to sit around in his underwear on the Fourth of July and sing to his dogs. It helps to remind us why we fought that war with the British.”

  “I thought it had something to do with taxation.”

  “Well, that was part of it, but the big thing was a man’s right to walk around his own house in his shorts . . .”—Slim blistered the deputy with his eyes—“. . . without some busybody from town sneaking up and blowing a frazzling si-reen!”

  Deputy Kile laughed. “Are you through?”

  “For now.”

  “Are you ready to listen to something?”

  “I think that si-reen damaged my ears.”

  “Well, listen anyway.” The deputy’s smile faded into a serious expression. “Two days ago, a man walked into the grocery store in Twitchell. He had a pet skunk on a leash and was carrying a paper sack. He walked up to the cashier and handed her a note that said, ‘Give me five pounds of baloney, or my skunk will spray your store.’”

  Slim stared at him. “Is this a joke?”

  The deputy shook his head. “Nope. But the cashier figured it was a joke. When he didn’t leave, she tried to call the police.” The deputy glanced around. “You got any more of that coffee?”

  “No. Hurry up and finish the story. You’ve got me curious.”

  “I take it with cream and sugar.”

  Slim rose from his chair and growled, “You always was a tiresome man.” Still holding his banjo, he hurried into the house (that was something new for Slim, hurrying) and returned minutes later, without the banjo, wearing a bathrobe, and holding a mug of coffee.

  Deputy Kile nodded his thanks and looked into the cup. “Where’s the cream and sugar?”

  Slim flopped down in his chair. “The milk cow’s been sick, and we had a crop failure on the sugarcane. Finish your story. I’m dying to hear this.”

  The deputy took a sip of coffee and flinched. “Is this coffee or mop water?”

  “It’s cowboy coffee, and you don’t have to drink it. What happened in the store?”

  The deputy took another sip, made an ugly face, and went on with the story. Wait till you hear this. You won’t believe it.

  Chapter Four: The Robber

  If you recall, Chief Deputy Kile was telling Slim about a robbery in Twitchell. Here’s the rest of the story.

  “The man wasn’t bluffing, and the skunk wasn’t de-skunked. When the cashier reached for the phone, the man blew a high-pitched whistle. The skunk hopped up on its front legs, fanned out its tail, and fired.”

  Slim’s face fell into a scowl. “Wait a second, I cain’t believe this. You’re telling me that he’d trained a skunk to spray on command?”

  The deputy gave his head a solemn nod.

  “I never heard of such a thing.”

  “Well, you can believe it or not, I don’t care.”

  Slim pulled on his chin. “He blew a whistle and the skunk sprayed?”

  The deputy nodded. “That’s right, and as you might guess, skunks aren’t good for grocery stores. Bad. They had to shut down for the day.”

  “Well, what happened to the crook?”

  “He pulled a gas mask out of the paper sack and put it on his face. In all the excitement, he just walked away. Nobody had any idea who he was or where he went. He didn’t get the baloney, but he just about ruined the store. The manager wants his scalp . . . yesterday.”

  Slim smirked. “If you catch the guy, what’ll you charge him with? Attempted robbery with a skunk?”

  The deputy laughed. “I’m not sure how we’ll handle the charges, but we’ll try to throw the book at him for property damage. It was pretty funny, but not cheap.”

  Slim leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. “So a man tries to rob a store in Twitchell with a skunk . . . and you’re sitting on my porch, telling me about it. Is there a connection?”

  The deputy rose from his chair and walked over to the edge of the porch. He pointed to some greenery below the porch. “Are those weeds or flowers?”

  “Weeds. I’ve got plenty of ’em.”

  The deputy poured his coffee onto the weeds. “You don’t have as many as you thought. This stuff ought to kill ’em dead.”

  He returned to his chair and pulled a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. It was a map. He unfolded it and showed it to Slim.

  “The day after that deal at the store, a rancher in Lipscomb County reported that somebody entered his house and stole some beef out of the deep freeze. The next day, another rancher up the creek made the same complaint, only this time the missing items were cans of food. Next day, same thing . . . here, here, and here.” He tapped his finger on the map, three times.

  Slim squinted at the map. “Huh. It seems to be moving this way.”

  “That’s right. I’ve got a hunch the crook’s on foot in this empty ranch country and he’s living off the land. He seems to be moving east, down the creek, and I guess he’s got that skunk on a leash. If he sticks with the pattern, he’s liable to show up around here.”

  Slim’s eyebrows rose. “Huh. Well, thanks for the tip. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

 
; The deputy’s expression darkened and he lowered his voice. “Slim, if he shows up at your door, here’s what I want you to do. Give him a cup of your coffee and call an ambulance. If he survives, I’ll throw him in jail.”

  Cackling at his own joke, Deputy Kile started walking toward his car. Slim turned around in his chair and said, “Bobby, you ain’t near as funny as you think.”

  The deputy waved. “Seriously, keep your eyes peeled and call if you see anything suspicious.”

  Slim cupped his hand around his mouth and yelled, “We’ll probably have a lawsuit over you blowing my ears out with that si-reen. My lawyer’ll be in touch.”

  The deputy climbed into his car, blew the siren one last time, and drove away. Slim settled back into his chair and looked down at us dogs. “He’s too fussy to be an officer of the law.” He took a gulp of coffee and spit out some grounds. “You know, he’s got a point. This ain’t my best . . .”

  He didn’t finish his sentence because, at that very moment, the telephone rang inside the house. He heard it but didn’t move. Instead, he waved a hand in the air and growled, “I ain’t going to answer it. I don’t care who you are.” The phone kept ringing. Slim dropped into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I ain’t a slave to the telephone. Go ahead and ring all you want.”

  Well, that was okay with me. The ringing stopped, and I stretched out on the porch and prepared for a nice little—the phone started ringing again. I sat up and threw a glance at Slim.

  He heaved a sigh. “It’s Loper. He knows I’m here and he won’t quit.” He pushed himself out of the chair and headed for the door.

  Drover and I sprang to our feet and followed him. I mean, it was pretty obvious that he needed some help from the Security Division, and by George, we were glad to do it.

  Slim had his mind on other things and didn’t hold the screen door open for us, but we got there double-quick and managed to squirt through the opening, before the door slammed shut.

  He stomped across the living room in his bare feet and snatched up the phone.