The Quest fort the Great White Quail

by John R. Erickson

  Okay, it really was Miss Beulah and that explained all the . . . uh . . . odd behavior in the ranks of the Security Division’s greeting committee. We’ve discussed Miss Beulah, right? Long collie nose, flaxen hair, gorgeous brown eyes, and a perfect set of ears.

  She was the one true love of my life. Many a night had she visited my dreams, but never had she been so bold as to visit me in person . . . at least, not all by herself!

  See, there had always been a bird dog in her life, a stick-tailed half-wit named Plato. I had never understood what she saw in a guy who chased birds and fetched tennis shoes, but now it appeared that she had finally come to her senses.

  SHE HAD COME TO ME!

  I rushed up to her and would have flown into her arms, only Drover had gotten there first and was making a complete fool of himself. “Oh, Miss Beulah . . . roses are red and cornmeal is grainy/Your beautiful face just drives me insaney!”

  “Drover, please control yourself!”

  He didn’t miss a beat, but took a deep breath and fired off another silly poem. “I’ve read about roses, they made me feel blue/ ’Cause violet roses remind me of you.”

  “Drover, that’s outrageous! You’ll do anything to make a rhyme. There’s no such thing as a violet rose and besides . . .” I shoved him out of the way and looked into the face that had launched a thousand poems, and from my lips there floweth an astounding piece of literature:

  I knew when I saw you that this was the end

  Of Plato’s involvement with you as a friend.

  I’ll tell you quite frankly, I’ve thought many times,

  You could have had dollars but settled for dimes.

  But Plato is gone, not a minute too soon,

  At last you have ditched your bird-dog buffoon!

  I gazed up into her lovely face to see if my poem had absolutely swept her away, but Drover came blundering back onto the stage, spouting another piece of ragged nonsense:

  Oh Beulah, my heart rate has gone off the scale.

  My blood pressure’s rising, my face has turned pale.

  My vision’s so blurry, I hardly can see.

  My kidneys are pumping so hard, I might . . .

  Now get this. The little mutt’s eyes popped wide open and crossed. He let out a gasp and said, “Uh-oh!” In a flash, he left and scampered behind a wild plum thicket nearby.

  Well, he should have known better than to get into a Poetry Fight with me. Words have power and meaning, you know, and mutts who aren’t trained to handle powerful love poems can get themselves into trouble.

  I could have warned him, but he wouldn’t have listened. When Beulah enters the scene, he comes unhinged, loses all touch with reality, and thinks . . . I don’t know, that he’s some world-famous poet, but he’s not even close.

  Well, with Drover out of the contest, I swung my gaze around and feasted my eyes on . . . huh? She had turned away and seemed to be . . . well, crying. I rushed to her side.

  “Miss Beulah, as Head of the Security Divi­sion, I want to issue a formal apology for Drover’s shameful behavior. We’ve known for a long time that he writes gawky poems, but we never dreamed that he would inflict his shabby doggerel on such a fine lady as yourself. On behalf of the entire Security Division, I want you to know that we’re shocked and embarrassed.”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t Drover.”

  “Huh? Of course it was Drover. The other poetry you heard was of the highest quality, and you might have noticed that . . . well, I wrote it myself. Just for you, by the way, and I hope you paid special attention to the rhymes. Perfect rhymes, Beulah, every line handmade in the workshop of my heart.”

  Again, she shook her head. “Your poem was sweet. Thank you.”

  “Well, then what’s the problem?”

  “I’ve made a fool of myself, coming here . . . oh, you wouldn’t understand!”

  She hurried away. What was going on around here? I ran after her and stood in her path, forcing her to stop. “Beulah, you can’t show up on my ranch, burst into tears, and then just walk away. Has Plato said something to make you cry? Because if he has . . .”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s nothing like that.” She brushed a tear out of her eye and looked at me. “Hank, it was foolish of me to come here. This isn’t your problem.”

  “Beulah, anything that makes you cry is my problem. Tell me, and hurry before the Prince of Rhymes comes back and starts spouting nonsense.”

  She heaved a sigh and looked off into the distance. “It’s Plato. He’s wandered off again, looking for quail.”

  “No kidding? Hey, that’s the best news I’ve heard in months! Congratulations, my little sugar plum! Maybe this time, he’ll stay gone forever.”

  She whirled around and faced me with a pair of flaming eyes. “See? I knew this would be a waste of time, I knew you wouldn’t . . .” She burst into tears again.

  Well, gee, what’s a guy supposed to say? I mean, she had just delivered a great piece of news and had made me the happiest dog in Texas, and now she was bawling. Did that make sense? No, but Beulah had always been a little hard to figure out.

  I gave her a moment to get control of herself. “All right, Beulah, go on. I’ll listen.”

  She took a deep breath and walked a few steps away. “Plato is a bird dog, and bird dogs are . . . they have a peculiar side.”

  “Beulah, I am so glad to hear you say that, and if I might expand . . .”

  “Hank! You said you would listen.”

  “Oh. Yes. Sorry.”

  “Bird dogs are hunters, and when quail season is over, they sometimes get restless. All their instincts and energy and training have no place to go. The poor dear has tried to keep himself occupied, pointing his tennis shoe and fetching . . . well, everything on the place that wasn’t tied down, but it wasn’t enough. Four days ago, I noticed an odd look in his eyes. He was staring off into space.”

  I let out a groan. “Oh great! Let me guess. The birdbrain wandered off the ranch and can’t find his way back home?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but it’s worse than that. This is the third time in two weeks and Billy, our master, is tired of driving all over the country to look for him.”

  This sent a pleasant tingle rushing down my spine. “Gee, that’s too bad. I mean, in some ways he was a pleasant jerk.”

  She glared at me. “He’s better than you’ll ever know. He’s kind, considerate, and loyal, the sweetest dog I’ve ever known.” Her lip trembled. “But he has this other side. He gets so silly sometimes and I’m afraid . . .” She turned away and the tears flowed.

  I counted the plink of her tears as they dripped off her chin. Twenty-three. “Okay, Beulah, what do you want me to do?”

  She wiped her eyes and looked at me. “I want you to find him before the coyotes get him.”

  “And why should I do that? I’m sure you’re aware that he and I are rivals.”

  “Yes, I know, but the poor thing deserves another chance.”

  “Yeah? Well, so do I.”

  Our eyes met for a long moment, then she said, “If you can save him, you’ll get your chance.”

  My ears shot up. “With you?” She nodded. “Wow, that’s all I needed to hear! Which way did he go?”

  “North, I think, toward the canyons. It will be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? Ha! I can’t even spell the word, so how could I be scared of it? I’m off on a mission, my little prairie flower. Later this afternoon, you and I will have important business to discuss.”

  “Just save him, Hank, that’s all that matters.”

  I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “That’s not all that matters, but it’s a place to start. Good-bye, Miss Beulah!”

  And with that, I went streaking off to the north to begin a Search and Rescue Mission for a guy who didn’t deserve it.

&nbs
p; Chapter Seven: Drover Is Injured in the Line of Duty

  I hadn’t planned on taking Little Shakespeare on the mission, but when he finished his business in the plum thicket and saw me streaking away, he figured out that something was afoot, and he came scampering after me.

  “Hank, wait up! Where are we going?”

  “We? We aren’t going anywhere, you little buttinski, but I’m going out on an important mission.”

  “Oh goodie, how fun! Can I go?”

  I slowed down to a walk. “Absolutely not.”

  “Gosh, how come?”

  I stopped and gave him a scorching glare. “Drover, after that incident with Miss Beulah, I’m ashamed to be seen with you. You’ve brought disgrace to the entire Security Division.”

  “Gee, all I did was . . .”

  “Furthermore, you tried to steal my girl with cheap tricks and mawkish poems.”

  “I thought they were pretty good.”

  “They were dreadful. That last poem you did, the one about blood pressure and kidneys . . . Drover, it sounded like an autopsy report!”

  “Yeah, but she liked it.”

  “She hated it. And then, right in the middle of your presentation, what did you do?”

  “Well . . .”

  “You ran to the bathroom!”

  “It was a plum bush.”

  “Drover, I knew what you were doing, and so did Beulah.”

  His head sank. “You really think so?”

  “Of course she knew. Everybody knew.”

  “She didn’t laugh, did she?”

  “You didn’t hear? Drover, she laughed her head off!”

  “I thought she was crying.”

  “She laughed until she cried. Does that make you proud of yourself?”

  He let out a groan and fell to the ground. “I couldn’t help it, I had to go! Oh, I’m so embarrassed! I’ll never be able to face her again.”

  He moaned and blubbered for, oh, three minutes at least, until I said, “Get up, son, you’ve suffered enough.” He didn’t budge. “Drover, you can’t punish yourself forever, just because you . . . well, behaved like an idiot.”

  “Yes, I can! I’m going to stay here forever!”

  “Drover, every cloud has a silver lining, but I must remind you that you’re not a cloud.”

  He peeked up at me. “I’m not?”

  “You’re a dog. You’ll always be a dog, and you’ll never be a cloud. Are you feeling better now?”

  “Not really.”

  I whopped him on the back. “Good! Now, let’s get out of here, we’ve got work to do.”

  I trotted off to the north, and he caught up with me. “I thought you said I couldn’t go.”

  “I changed my mind. After all the suffering you’ve done, you deserve a promotion.”

  His eyes lit up. “No fooling? Gosh, thanks! A real promotion, how neat! What am I going to do?”

  “We’re going to be traveling through coyote-infested canyons, and I thought we might let you go out on a scout patrol.”

  All at once, he stumbled and let out a yell. “Help! Get out of the way!” Before my very eyes, he nosed into the ground and did four forward rolls.

  When he had rolled to a stop, I rushed to his side and coughed on the cloud of dust he had kicked up. “What happened?”

  “Blowout, left front leg!”

  “That was a bad wreck. Are you all right?”

  “Oh yeah, and I’ve got to carry on with the mission. I’ll be fine.” He struggled to his feet, hobbled three steps, and collapsed. “Oh darn, there it went again! Help me up, I’ve got to keep going!”

  This was definitely a new Drover, one we had never seen before. I was proud of the little mutt. “All right, men, forward march! To the canyons!” As we marched northward, I watched him. I could see lines of pain etched on his face. “How are you doing, trooper?”

  “I’m not going to quit. I’ve been promoted to Scout.”

  We marched on. His limp grew worse. “Drover, if it gets unbearable, we can halt the column and rest.”

  “Never! I’ll eat the pain for breakfast.”

  We continued the march, but after we had gone another hundred yards, I could see that he was in agony, lurching along and weaving from side to side, his burning eyes locked on the distant horizon.

  At last I halted the column. “Drover, I can’t let you go on like this.”

  He turned to me with a crazy, fevered stare. “Got to go on! Turn me loose!”

  To my astonishment, he jerked away from the grisp of my grasp, staggered three more steps and crashed to the ground. I rushed to his side.

  “Okay, that does it. Soldier, your campaign is over. I’m sending you back to headquarters.” He struggled and tried to get up, but I held him down. “Drover, the pain has clouded your mind. Listen to me. You can’t go on! I’m ordering you to go home! I will not lead a wounded dog into combat.”

  He let out a groan. “Ohhhh! I don’t want to be a weenie!”

  “You’re not a weenie, son, and this isn’t your fault. Any dog who says you’re a weenie will have to answer to me. Can you walk?”

  “Well, I guess I can try.” I helped him to his feet and watched as he took a few pitiful steps. It almost broke my heart to see him like this, a husk of his normal self. “I think I can make it, even if I have to crawl.”

  “Drover, I’ve never seen such a display of bravery. You’ve become an example for all of us in the Security Division.”

  “Gosh, no fooling?”

  “Yes, and when this campaign is over, it will give me great pleasure to recommend you for the Order of the Double Cross. Well, good-bye, brave comrade. If fate is kind, we’ll see each other down the road.”

  I whirled away from him before my emotions could get out of control.

  Chapter Eight: A Mysterious Voice in the Fog

  Without question, it was one of the most emotional moments of my whole career.

  And this next part will really grab you. When we parted company, I heard Drover say, “I just hope I can live with the guilt!” Pretty touching, huh? You bet. I mean, right to the very last, the little guy was tormented that he had to leave the front lines.

  And me? I felt like a scrounge. I mean, how many times had I accused him of being a weenie, a chicken liver, a half-stepper, and a slacker? Now my words came back to honk me and I felt nothing but shame and remorse. Tears stung my eyes as I stopped and took one last look at my . . .

  HUH?

  I couldn’t believe it. Unless my eyes were playing tricks on me, Drover had made a miraculous recovery. I mean, the limp had vanished and he was now skipping and hopping and . . . gee whiz, chasing a butterfly!

  I was thrilled and shouted, “Drover, great news! I’m changing your orders. You can rejoin your outfit and march with us into combat!”

  He froze, stared at me for a moment of heartbeats, and then took off running as though he’d been shot out of a cannon.

  “Drover, this way! You’re running in the wrong direction! You’ve been cleared for action! You can return to your . . .”

  He shrank to a dot on the horizon, then vanished. Had he misunderstood my order? Or had he . . . I cut my eyes from side to side and my mind tumbled.

  THE LITTLE FAKER!

  Never mind. I’ll say no more about this shameful chapter in our ranch’s history.

  Yes, I will. Remember all that stuff about Drover’s bravery and heroism? Garbage, total garbage, and I’d be grateful if you’d take a dark pen and mark out all those passages. No, even better, cut them out with a pair of scissors and throw away the scraps.

  You want the real story on Drover? He’s a little WEENIE and he’ll always be a little weenie, and I can’t believe I ever . . .

  Skip it. Let’s move on to something else. I mean, I had more
important things to think about, right? I was on a special-ops mission to locate a wandering bird dog, a mission that would take me right into the heart of country that was controlled by wild tribes of cannibals. For that, I would need all my wits and instincts, and I had no time to be distracted by . . .

  I couldn’t believe I’d fallen for Drover’s Blow­out Scam! How many times had he pulled that same trick on me? Dozens of times. Hundreds of times.

  You know my biggest problem? My biggest problem is that I’m too nice, too trusting, too kind. I have this heart of gold, see, and dogs like Drover take advantage of it. He ought to be living with someone with a heart of granite, but never mind.

  Where were we? I have no idea. You see what he does to me? The mutt is a full-goose bozo, a lunatic, and it really torches me when . . .

  Plastic, that’s what we were discussing. Growing up, I chewed bones and sticks, sometimes an old shoe if I could find one, but somehow I missed out on the joy of chewing . . .

  Forget plastic. Plato, that’s where we were. I was on a mission to . . . you know, this was pretty crazy, me going into Cannibal Country to look for a bird dog who had caused me nothing but grief. And this wasn’t the first time I’d been called upon to save his skin.

  But don’t forget, this time I had been promised a reward. Wow. Think about it. The lovely Miss Beulah had promised to ditch the pest, once and for all, and with Plato out of my life . . . heh heh . . . I could see nothing but roses in the future.

  Every game has a winner and a loser. In the game for Beulah’s heart, Plato had won his share, but now he was fixing to lose the Big One. Heh heh. Too bad, but who’s going to lose sleep over a brokenhearted bird dog? Not me.

  Does that sound cold-blooded? Too bad. That’s my biggest problem, you know. My line of work has made me so tough and hard that I have no sympathy for slackers, losers, bird dogs, or cats. Sometimes it bothers me, knowing that I have this plate of steel that covers my deeper feelings, but it comes with the job. If you go into Security Work, you have to be tough.

  But of course I still had to find the dummy, and that wasn’t going to be a cakewalk under the bird’s nest. Don’t forget that I was heading toward canyon country, which consisted of several square miles of deep canyons, far from civilization and crawling with heartless cannibals.