The Case of the Saddle House Robbery

by John R. Erickson

  This was very strange, very strange indeed. We put Data Control to work on it right away, crunching the numbers and searching for a pattern here. At last we got the solution. Here’s what it said, and this is an exact quote:

  “Seven-come-eleven. They must be shooting dice.”

  Shooting dice? That made no sense at all. Who or whom or what was shooting dice? In a flash I punched in the codes and commands for “Retread”—“Retry,” actually—but we came up with the same message.

  Hmmmm. There was something fishy going on here and I had to get to the bottom of the barrel. It was bad luck that Data Control had failed to answer the vital questions, and now I had to follow it up on my own.

  I issued a Test Bark, then cocked my right ear and listened. Two barks returned. I issued a second Test Bark. Three barks returned. Was there a pattern here? No. I didn’t know what we had, only that it was pretty derned mysterious.

  I issued a third Test Bark and got one back this time, but aha! This time I picked up a crucial piece of information. The returning bark seemed closer than the ones before. I fired off a fourth and fifth Test Bark, and yes, the pattern continued.

  Those returning barks were definitely getting closer.

  How could this be? What could be causing the echoing barks to . . . wait. Something moved in the darkness. Yes, right out there in front of me, near the base of Sunrise Hill. A shadowy form seemed to be . . . two shadowy forms seemed to be creeping up the hill in my . . .

  HUH?

  Glittering yellow eyes?

  I was beginning to feel a little uneasy about this. I mean, echoes don’t have glittering yellow eyes, right? Echoes don’t even have eyes, right? So what the heck . . . and echoes don’t have voices either, but all at once I was pretty sure that I heard . . .

  “Uh! That you, Hunk? Pretty foolish you come out in black dark and play Talk Back Bark with most dangerous guys!”

  Hunk? Talk Back Bark?

  I cut my eyes from side to side. Data Control was flashing a warning light. Okay, it was all coming clear now. Remember all that stuff about “seven-come-eleven” and “shooting dice”? That was nothing but a garbage report from Data Control. What we had confronting us now had nothing to do with shooting dice or high-energy echoes.

  What we had confronting us now was a whole lot worse—Rip and Snort, the coyote brothers. Have we discussed Rip and Snort? There had been times in my career when I had shared some laughs with them, but there had been other times when I’d gotten the feeling that they wanted to . . . well, to eat me.

  And now it appeared that they had broken my codes and intermessed my messages, followed my barking patterns, and traced them back to ME.

  Me, standing alone on Funeral Hill. Me, away from the safety of the house.

  I swallowed a big lump in my throat, then addressed them in their own coyalect diote . . . coyote dialect, shall we say, a primitive grunting version of Universal Doglish. “Hey, Rip and Snort, how’s it going, fellas? Nice morning for a walk, huh?”

  “Ha! Big phooey on walk. Nice morning for fight. Hunk ready for big noisy fight?”

  “I . . . uh . . . no, not really.” I began backing away. “See, I was just . . . did you guys hear about the big dice game? Yeah, big dice game. You know, ‘seven-come-eleven’ and all that stuff. I know for a fact that you guys love to gamble.”

  “Us guys love to fight, beat up dummy ranch dog, kick and bite and scratch, oh boy.” They were getting closer. I could smell them now. Boy, did they stink. “How come Hunk stand on hill, in plainest sight, and bark louder and loudest?”

  “Well, I . . . if you must know, Snort, I was trying to bark up the sun a little earlier than usual.” I continued backing away, but this time they noticed. I heard them growling.

  “Hunk not try sneaking back to house and boom-boom.”

  “Me? Sneak back to the house? Ha, ha. Not me, guys, no sir. Really. No, I have to stay out here until I get that old sun barked up.”

  By this time they were right in front of me and I could see the outline of their sharp noses and sharp ears. I must admit that the sight of them, and the smell too, sent shivers of dread down my spine. I couldn’t believe I had gotten myself into this mess. Why hadn’t I . . . oh well, it was too late to spill the milk.

  Snort looked me over and then spoke. “Hunk barking up sun?”

  “Sure. That’s one of my jobs on this outfit. I bark up the sun every morning.”

  That drew a big laugh from the cannibals. “Ha! Hunk got big stupid in head, not have enough bark for punch hole in wet paper sack.”

  “Oh yeah? Tell that to the sun, Snort, because it comes up every morning when I bark at it . . . well, except this morning, and for some reason it didn’t work.”

  “Didn’t work ’cause Hunk have weenie bark.”

  “Weenie bark! Are you kidding me? Oh, I get it. You’re thinking of Drover, and yes, you might describe his bark as a weenie bark. But see, I’m not Drover.” They stared at me with empty eyes. “I’m not, honest. I’m not Drover and I’ve never been Drover. Therefore . . .”

  “Therefore Hunk talk too much.” He clubbed me over the head with his paw. BONK! “Hunk have weenie bark and not bark up sun.”

  “Okay, fine. But if I don’t bark up the sun, why do you think it comes up every morning, huh? You can’t answer that, can you?”

  They exchanged wicked glances and grinned. Then Snort puffed himself up to his full height and tapped himself on the chest. “Rip and Snort howl up sun, not dummy ranch dog with weenie bark.”

  “Oh yeah? Let’s see you do it.”

  The cannibals exchanged grins and nodded their heads. “Ha! Hunk fixing to see. Better watch real close.”

  The brothers turned and faced the east. Well, they had that part right, facing east instead of north or west. They sat down on their haunches, puffed themselves up with big gulps of air, and started launching their famous “Coyote Howl-Up-the-Sun Song” toward the eastern horizon.

  Have we discussed that song? Maybe not. It was a special coyote song they used for this one big event. It wasn’t quite as bad as most of the trash they sang, but it was bad enough. Here’s how it went, word for word and note for note.

  The Coyote Howl-Up-the-Sun Song

  Sun get up

  Off your duff

  We cannibals order the start of day.

  Shake a leg,

  Out of bed.

  Or else we will have to get mad.

  That’s bad.

  Well, they finished their noise, and you know what? It was still as dark as the inside of a cow. The sun wasn’t coming up.

  This pleased me, of course, but I didn’t dare say a word. Snort mumbled something about “dummy sun,” then he and Rip reloaded their lungs with air, and went back to work. This time, they skipped the singing and went to straight howling. They howled so hard and loud, they both collapsed on the ground.

  Snort called me over. “Maybe Hunk better help howl up stupid sun.”

  “Now you’re talking. Okay, guys, the gloves come off now. Let’s give it the full load this time.”

  And so it was that . . .

  BONK!

  Chapter Three: Code Three!

  Snort clubbed me over the head again. “Hunk not give orders to coyote brothers.”

  “Well, sure, but . . .”

  The important thing is that they dragged themselves off the ground and got into their howling stances. We were ready. I counted to three and we cut loose with the most amazing barrage of howling and barking that had ever been heard on the ranch. It was very impressive.

  We barked and howled and filled that whole valley with . . .

  You probably think the sun leaped over the horizon, and suddenly the night was transformed into daily broadlight. Not exactly.

  You might not believe this, but the sun resi
sted all our howling and barking. We barked and howled ourselves into puddles of hair—exhausted puddles of exhausted hair—and the idiot sun refused to come up!

  All three of us collapsed in a heap on the . . . well, on the ground, of course. Where else would three exhausted guys collapse? We were bushed, spent, defeated, light-headed, and gasping for breath.

  I was the first to squeak. Speak, I should say, although I must admit that it came out as a kind of squeak. “Boys, I don’t want to alarm you, but we may be witnessing some kind of universal calamity here. The sun has resisted our best efforts. We have to face the possibility that it will never rise again. Never ever.”

  I heard them gulp in the darkness. That ex­pressed it pretty well. For reasons that we didn’t understand, those pink streaks didn’t seem to be getting any brighter. The world had been plunged into permanent darkness.

  My thoughts were interrupted just then by a squawky sound coming from headquarters. I cocked my ear and listened. Rip and Snort cocked their respective ears and listened.

  I broke the silence. “Oh, it’s J. T. Cluck, the local rooster. He thinks he can squawk up the sun, but of course he doesn’t realize . . .”

  I’m afraid I can’t reveal what happened next. It was too outrageous. You’d never believe it. Even I didn’t believe it, and it happened before my very eyes.

  Let’s skip it and move along with the story.

  Nothing happened, okay? I didn’t go out to bark up the sun that morning. I stayed on my gunny­sack bed, and I didn’t run into Rip and Snort. And most important, we didn’t throw ourselves into the effort of . . .

  Okay, here’s the deal. Mere seconds after J. T. Cluck began his squawking routine . . . the sun came up! My cannibal pals and I, we who had spent the last half hour barking and howling ourselves into exhaustion, were shocked. If we hadn’t been so tired, we might have also been outraged. I mean, the very idea . . .

  For a whole entire minute, none of us could speak. Then Snort said, “Hunk make big mess out of coyote job.”

  “Me? Hey, I gave it my best shot. It wasn’t my fault. The rooster got lucky, that’s all.”

  “Uh. Then Hunk better go back and fix rooster.”

  I stared at them. “Fix the rooster?”

  “Beat him up. Rip and Snort madder and maddest for losing sun-bark-up deal.”

  “I agree. It’s the only course left to us. If someone doesn’t give him a thrashing, he’s liable to think he actually did what we saw him do—which we all know was impossible and outrageous. Roosters can’t crow up the sun.” The brothers nod­ded. “Only dogs and coyotes can do that.” The brothers nodded. “And the fact that we failed and he succeeded is further proof that this has gone far enough.” The brothers nodded. “I’ll take care of it, guys.”

  I struggled to my feet. My knees were still shaking from all the effort we had put into our noble attempt. I started walking toward the west, when all at once I was overwhelmed by emotion.

  “Fellers, it was a great campaign. Even though we failed, we gave it our best effort, and it was a real pleasure . . .”

  They were asleep—sprawled out in the pasture and conked out. Even so, I finished my thought.

  “If you fleabags hadn’t come along, I would have had that sun barked up thirty minutes ago. You dumbbells couldn’t bark your way out of a spider web. You know why we got beat by a rooster? Because you’re a couple of slackers, that’s why, and the next time I need to bark up the sun . . .”

  Snort raised his head and glared at me. “What Hunk say?”

  “I said . . . hey, you guys were awesome. The next time we try to bark up the sun, by George, we’ll do it right, huh? You bet we will. See you down the road.” I waved good-bye and hurried away. Under my breath, I added, “Fleabags.”

  I ran back to headquarters. Even though I was operating on the very last of my energy reserves, I took the time to visit the chicken house. Heh heh. J.T. was standing out in front. Fifteen deranged hens were hovering nearby, gasping and holding their wings in front of their bodies and clucking about J.T.’s latest accomplishment.

  The minute he saw me, a grin spread across his beak and he began mouthing off. “You know, pooch, if you’d make a little less noise in the mornings, I’d have an easier time crowing up that sun.”

  One bite of his tail feathers solved that little problem. Then I ran into Pete, who also made the mistake of mouthing off. “Well, Hankie, your little plan didn’t work too well, did it? Just darn the luck.” Heh heh. He soon found it necessary to run for his life and climb a tree.

  Well, that took care of that. Having settled all accounts with all the local frauds and imposters, I returned to my bedroom under the gas tanks, did three turns around my gunnysack bed, and collapsed. All was well in the world. I had . . . uh . . . participated in the rising of the sun, shall we say, had thrashed a smart-aleck rooster, and humbled the cat.

  I drifted off into sleep’s warm embrace, knowing that I had done my part to make the world a better, safer place.

  It must have been ten or fifteen minutes later when my ears began picking up a new and odd sound. My left ear shot up, twisted around, and homed in on the sound. Holy smokes, we had an unidentified vehicle approaching the ranch!

  I leaped out of my bed and began barking the alarm. “Get up, Drover, we’ve got a Code Three coming into headquarters! Get into Bark-the-Car Formation and let’s check it out.”

  The little mutt lifted his head and cracked open his eyes. “Gosh, is it serious?”

  “Every unauthorized penetration of the ranch is serious, Drover, and some are even more serious than others. Get into formation and let’s move out.”

  He did, and we went swooping around the south side of the house. Boy, you should have seen us! Twenty-five yards out, we began a withering barrage of barking. Seconds later, we had the vehicle surrounded and had forced it to stop in front of the house.

  Pretty impressive, huh? You bet it was, but that was just the beginning. Once we had this guy pulled over and stopped, I sprang into action and began shouting orders.

  “Okay, Drover, prepare to Mark Tires! You take the right side. I’ve got the left side.”

  “Should we give ’em a Full Mark or a Short Squirt?”

  “Short Squirt. We haven’t run a check on these people and we don’t know their intentions. It could be dangerous, so, yes, dart in there and do a Short Squirt. We can always go back later and do a better job. Move out!”

  You should have seen us in action. It was poetry in motion. All our skill as dogs, all our training, all our dedication to duty came out in this exercise. Drover swooped in and knocked out both tires on the right side, and I’ve got to give the little mutt credit. He held his fire, took careful aim, and placed the ordinance in the target area.

  Sometimes he doesn’t do it that well, you know. I’ve seen times when he’s lost control and started firing wild shots in all directions, but this time he delivered the goods.

  Me? Well, I stepped up to the left front tire and blasted it. Hey, when you hit a tire with such force and accuracy that it makes the hubcap ring, you know you’ve done the job right. And that’s just what I did, made that rascal ring like a bell.

  I was tempted to linger and give it another round, but I had called for the Short Squirt Proce­dure, and timing is very important in this maneuver. If I had lingered even two or three seconds, it would have thrown off all our timing, which might have . . . I don’t know what might have happened, but it could have had serious consequences. My buddy was working the other side, following a very precise timing schedule, and I had to do the same.

  Teamwork, see. We’re part of a team, an elite team of highly trained dogs who . . . all at once this seems kind of boring. Let’s move on.

  Okay, I lobbed a blast into Tire #1 and ran at full speed to Tire #2. The second tire is always the tougher in a Two-Tire Situatio
n. For one thing, a guy has to reload on the run. For another thing, you’ve got the problem of exhaustion and dehydration. And finally, by the time we get to the second tire, we sometimes draw enemy fire.

  See, the left side of the vehicle is more dangerous than the right, because the steering wheel and so forth are on the left side, and that’s where the driver sits. Are you getting the picture? When we draw fire, it usually comes from the driver.

  I know this is pretty technical stuff, and you probably had no idea that marking tires could be so complicated. Well, it is. Anything worth doing is worth being complicated. We don’t just blunder in there and start squirting tires. Some mutts do, but Drover and I are the elite forces of the Security Divi­sion, and we figure that anything worth doing . . . I’ve already said that.

  I had just fought my way to Tire #2, when suddenly and all of a sudden, the door flew open and an angry man leaped out. See, some drivers resent dogs marking their tires. It makes ’em mad and sometimes they yell and screech and try to disrupt our mission. We have a response to this. We call it “Too Bad.” We go right on with the mission and ignore their threats and noise.

  No ordinary dog would dare to do that, but here at the ranch, we do it all the time.

  Okay, this guy leaped out of the pickup and . . .hang on, this gets a little scary . . . and he didn’t respond with the usual stuff—you know, the yelling and hissing and so forth. No sir. He did things I’d never seen before, things to which we hadn’t been trained to respond. To. To respond to. Two “to”s.

  Are you ready for this?

  I’m not so sure you are. It’s so shocking, you may want to think about it for a minute.

  If you decide to skip over the scary part, that’ll be okay. Go directly to Chapter Five and don’t pause to look at Chapter Four. We’ll regroup on the other side, see, and nobody will call you a . . . well, a weenie, for example, or any other tacky name. No name-calling here. Honest.