Murder in the Middle Pasture

by John R. Erickson

  I lifted one paw and eased it up on the bed. Then I lifted the other paw and laid it on the bed. I listened. Nothing. Very carefully, I shifted the weight of my body from my hind legs to my front legs and pulled myself up on the bed. Then I froze and listened. Nothing.

  I scooted myself across the full length of the bed until I reached the pillow beside Slim’s head. Heck, that was good enough for me.

  I closed my eyes and shut her down for the night.

  Chapter Six: Rooster J.T.

  Slept real good. Sally May had a dandy bed. I mean, it was soft but not so soft that it gave me a backache. Now, the pillow struck me as just a tad too firm. It could have been softer. But all things considered, it beat a gunnysack.

  Bunking with Slim turned out to be okay too. He snored and talked in his sleep, but I’ll take that any day over Drover’s twitching and wheezing.

  I woke up at first light, slipped off the bed, and padded back into the living room. When Slim got up, he found me curled up in front of the stove. The house was pretty chilly, so Slim loaded the stove with wood, opened up the vent and the flue, and went back to bed to read The Cattleman magazine.

  After a bit, I heard him say, “Well, I’ll be derned! Who woulda thought that Sally May and Loper had fleas in their bed? Now, that’s one for the record books.”

  Kind of shocked me too, although I’d have to say that having fleas is not the worst flaw a person could have. I’ve known a lot of dogs who had them and many of those guys were pretty solid.

  Still, it was a little shocking that Sally May had fleas in her bed. She just never struck me as that kind of woman.

  Well, the stove started kicking out heat and Slim climbed out of the sack for good. He pulled on his jeans and boots and went into the kitchen. He put some coffee on to boil and took the frying pan and plate out of the ice box and started breakfast.

  I couldn’t get too excited about sitting through another smoke-out. I mean, Slim’s a fine guy, don’t get me wrong, but I’d already seen what he could do to a normal, healthy potato and a good hunk of beef, and I figgered it was about time to get back to work.

  I headed for the back door. Drover was still asleep. “Roll out, son, we got work to do.”

  He sat up, cross-eyed and cock-eared, confused and disoriented, in other words his usual good-morning self. He staggered to his feet and bounced off a wall before he finally figgered out where he was.

  Slim opened the back door for us. “I’ll be out directly,” he said.

  Drover stepped out into the snow and stood there with his feet together. He shivered and moaned. “Oh Hank, I just can’t stand any more of this snow!”

  “Sure you can.” I gave him a shove with my nose. “Go on, move around, rattle your hocks. You ain’t gonna die. Go check the feed barn and I’ll take a look at the chicken house, meet you back at the gas tanks in half an hour.”

  “Oh, my feet are so cold!”

  “And the mailman comes by at 10:00. We missed barking at him yesterday and we sure don’t want to miss him today. He’ll start getting ideas if we don’t keep after him.”

  We hopped over the fence and split up. I sniffed out the machine shed, nothing there, trotted on over to the chicken house, ran into that big red rooster with the green tail feathers. Name’s John Cluck, and when he pronounces an S, he whistles.

  He was out on the runway between the chicken house door and the ground, shoveling snow with his feet.

  “Morning, J.T. How do you like this snow?”

  “I don’t like it, and I think it’s a darn disgrace when the senior rooster has to get out and shovel the darn snow when there’s big stout boys in the house that won’t turn a tap, is what I think! These darn boys think they ought to sleep ’till noon. Nobody wants to work anymore, just party and chase the girls.”

  “You see anything suspicious in the night?”

  “Yes sir, I think it’s darn suspicious that these kids nowadays show so little respect for their elders and expect to sleep all day long. I think that’s very darn suspicious.”

  “Actually, what I had in mind was wild animals prowling around in the night.”

  “Let me tell you something,” said J.T. “I’m not near as worried about wild animals as I am about this younger generation. Who’s going to teach ’em to work?”

  “You got me.”

  “Who’s going to teach ’em the proper darn respect? Who’s going to carry the load when the older ones are gone?”

  “That’s a problem, all right. So you didn’t see any coyotes? I got a tip that we may have a killer on the loose.”

  He leaned forward and squinted one eye. “I’ll tell you the killer’s name.”

  “All right, say it slowly and try not to whistle.”

  “The killer’s name is LAZINESS! The killer’s name is DON’T CARE! The killer’s name is . . .”

  “Hold up, J.T. Did you hear or see anything unusual in the night?”

  “Yes sir, I certainly did.”

  “You better tell me about it.”

  He looked over his shoulder and moved closer. “It was right after sundown. I had fallen asleep on my roost. I woke up all of a sudden and I heard it.”

  “Give me a description, details, facts.”

  “It was an awful sound. It was a terrible sound.”

  “Be more specific. Was it an explosion? A growl? A scream?”

  “No, it was worse, far worse. Somebody was down in the yard . . . after dark . . . singing.”

  “Huh? Singing?”

  “Yes sir, singing. After dark, in the darn snow, singing.”

  “Well uh, let’s talk about that, J.T. As a matter of fact, I heard it myself and I thought it was pretty good.”

  “Oh no. It was terrible. That crazy dobber, whomsoever he was, ought to be locked up.”

  “Guess you’re pretty much an expert on singing.”

  “Yes sir, I am. I love beautiful singing. I love the old hymns. And the world knows where I stand on drunkenness.”

  “What’s drunkenness got to do with it?”

  “Sir, whomsoever that was in the yard last night, after dark, in the snow, was DRUNK! They don’t fool me, not after all these years. I’ve seen ’em come and go. They’re all sorry and worthless and they got no respect for beautiful music.”

  “I see. Well, I guess when you ask a chicken for an opinion, you deserve what you get.”

  “Say what?”

  “I said, the younger generation is looking better all the time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

  I stalked away. Dumb bird. What did he know about music? As a matter of fact . . . oh well.

  I went on down to the gas tanks and found Slim and Drover. Slim was gassing the pickup, getting ready to make his feed run. Drover just stood around, looking pitiful.

  All at once I noticed that Slim was staring at something down by the creek. “Say, that’s a heifer. What’s she doing in this pasture?”

  A heifer in the home pasture? “Come on Drover,” I yelled, “we’ve got a trespasser! Follow me and sound the alarm!”

  I shot past Slim and took aim for the heifer. But Slim canceled the mission. “Hank, come back here! Leave her alone. Get in the pickup and let’s go take a look at her.”

  Me and Drover hopped into the cab and Slim drove down to the creek. She was walking and bawling and looking around for something.

  Slim chewed on his bottom lip and studied the signs. “Boys, that heifer had a calf last night but she hasn’t been sucked out. Bag’s swollen. What’s she doing in this pasture and where’s the calf?”

  He watched her for a long time, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Then he turned the pickup around and headed for the corral. “I hope I’m wrong, boys, but I got a feeling that we’ll find her calf dead in the middle pasture. We may have a kill
er coyote loose on the ranch.”

  Chapter Seven: Murder in the Middle Pasture

  Slim caught his horse, pulled on his shotgun chaps, tied a bandanna around his neck, and tied an extra pigging string on the saddle.

  He led the horse up to the house and went inside. Drover and I waited by the gate, and Drover started moaning.

  “Oh Hank, I just don’t think I can run all the way up to the middle pasture. This bad leg of mine . . .”

  “Oh for crying out loud, will you quit yapping about your so-called bad leg! We’ve got a possible murder case here and all you can think about is . . .”

  “It’s the snow, Hank, I just can’t . . . and who’s going to bark at the mailman at 10:00?”

  “Hmm. Now that’s a point, but it’s got nothing to do with your bad leg.”

  “Remember, we didn’t bark at him yesterday.”

  “I’m well aware of that situation, since I’m the one who mentioned it in the first place.”

  “And since you’re the one who mentioned it in the first place . . .”

  “Will you shut your yap and let me think!” He did and I did. “Okay, here’s the plan. I’ll go with Slim. We’ll leave you here in reserve.”

  “Oh drat.”

  “What do you mean, oh drat? I know what you’re going to do. As soon as we leave, you’ll be warming your buns in the machine shed. That’s fine, Drover, as long as you’re up at the mailbox at 10:00 sharp. I want you to meet the truck and give him the whole nine yards of barking.”

  “I sure will, Hank, I’ll be there. You can depend on me.”

  “Yeah, but for what?”

  Slim came out of the house and he was wearing a pistol on his belt. He stepped up into the saddle and we went down to the creek and started driving the heifer north toward the middle pasture. We had a little trouble getting her out of the creek willows, but guess who penetrated the dense underbrush and brought her out.

  Me.

  We pointed her north and drove her a mile and a half through snow. She was in a nasty mood and made several passes at me with her horns. I held my temper this time. I knew she’d had a bad night with the coyotes and wasn’t smart enough to tell the difference between a dog and a coyote.

  Slim put her through the gate and we drove her into the middle pasture. Another thing he did, which I thought was pretty slick, he made the sound of a calf bawling. The heifer threw up her head and trotted in a straight line to a canyon southwest of the windmill.

  I glanced at Slim. He nodded his head. “She knows where she’s going now.” We followed her down a rocky ravine.

  All at once I saw them: two big gray coyotes eating something in the snow up ahead. I bristled up and went on the attack.

  Slim saw them too, and he came right behind me with his horse in a gallop. We flew past the heifer and took after the coyotes. I would have gotten more serious about the chase if Slim hadn’t pulled his gun and started blasting. When I heard the zing of the first two bullets, I veered off to the right and let him have the coyotes.

  I mean, I’ve worked around cowboys enough to know that where pistols are concerned, what they hit ain’t necessarily what they aim at. If Slim wanted to empty his gun at those coyotes, that was okay with me. I’d watch from the rear.

  Well, he emptied his gun and the coyotes gave him the slip and I watched from the rear. He came back with a tired horse and a face that was red from the cold.

  “Well, they got away, Hank, and I don’t think I did any more than scare ’em a little bit.”

  I could have told him.

  He rode over to where the heifer was standing over the dead calf, what the coyotes had left of it, and shook his head. “I guess we’d better drive these heifers down into the home pasture where we can watch ’em a little closer. We can’t have any more of this.”

  I walked over toward Slim. When the heifer saw me, she started shaking her horns and came after me again, chased me around Slim’s horse until she finally got tired and gave up.

  “Boy, she’s in a hostile mood,” said Slim. “Better stay away from her. She sure thinks you’re a coyote.”

  We left her there, loped out to the back side of the pasture, and started looking for cattle. Lucky for us, we found them all in two bunches near the windmill. We got behind them and drove them south and put them through the gate into the home pasture. Then we headed back to headquarters.

  We got there around noon. Slim went on down to the corral and put up his horse, and I went looking for Drover. Naturally I went straight to the machine shed, expecting to find him sound asleep on Slim’s overalls.

  I peeked in the door, looked around. It was awful dark and gloomy in there. “Drover?” I heard him whimper and I stepped inside and went toward the sound. Had to go all the way back to the north end and found him amongst the windmill parts and the electric fence chargers. “What are you doing back here?”

  “Oh Hank, they came back! I tried to run ’em off but they beat me up.”

  “Wait a minute. Who came back and beat you up? Coyotes?”

  “No, those stray dogs, Buster and Muggs and the others. I went up to bark at the mailman, like you told me, and they jumped me on my way back. I never had a chance.”

  “I can believe that.” By this time my eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I could see that his hair was mussed in several places and one ear had been chewed on. “How bad you hurt?”

  “Terrible! I’m wounded, Hank, I may not make it.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Well . . . I guess so.”

  “And you can talk. So if you can walk and talk, what else is wrong?”

  “Well . . . Hank, I don’t like getting whipped!”

  “Nobody does, son, but in this business that’s just part of a day’s work. Even yours truly has been whipped on a few rare occasions, and if it’s good enough for me, it’s good enough for you. Move around and let’s see.”

  He limped around. “My ear hurts.”

  “Is that why you’re limping?”

  “No. My leg hurts too.”

  “That leg’s a long way from your heart, Drover. I don’t think you’re gonna die.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. A guy just doesn’t get any sympathy around here.”

  “Sympathy, sympathy, sympathy. There, is that better?”

  “I guess it beats a kick in the head.”

  “That’s the spirit. Listen, we got big problems. We’ve been attacked on two fronts today.” I told him about the murder in the middle pasture.

  “Oh my gosh! Those stray dogs killed a calf?”

  I stared at the runt. “Who said anything about stray dogs?”

  “Well . . . I did . . . I guess.”

  “Son, dogs don’t kill calves.”

  “Never?”

  “Never, ever. It goes against our nature.”

  “But stray dogs . . .”

  “Stray dogs, ranch dogs, town dogs, it’s all the same. It was a coyote job. We caught ’em in the act.”

  “Oh, I just thought . . .”

  “You thought it was an interesting coincidence that a calf was murdered on the very day we had a gang of stray dogs on the ranch.”

  “Well . . .”

  “You thought you would get a gold star for solving the case.”

  “Well . . .”

  “You thought I hadn’t considered the possibility that the dogs might have killed the calf and the coyotes came along later and found the carcass.”

  “Well, that did . . .”

  “You thought that would be a simple explanation.”

  “Yes, I guess . . .”

  “But life isn’t that simple, Drover. You can’t expect to sit in the machine shed and solve a murder case. You have to get out into the real world, in the snow and wind and cold. You have to ch
eck the scent. You have to study the tracks. You have to memorize every detail of the murder scene.”

  “Oh. I guess I was wrong.”

  “Indeed you were. There’s no particular shame in being wrong, but just don’t let it happen again.”

  “Okay, Hank.”

  “And always remember: on this ranch, perfect is usually good enough.”

  “Perfect is usually . . . okay, I think I got it.”

  “Now, where was I? Yes, we’ve been attacked on two fronts. We have murdering coyotes up in the pasture and a gang of wild dogs lurking around headquarters. I guess you know what that means.”

  “Sure do.”

  “What?”

  “Well,” he rolled his eyes and looked around the shed, “it means we better sleep in the house again tonight, and maybe go in a little early.”

  “Absolutely wrong. It means I go up north on a spy mission and you’ll have to hold headquarters by yourself. Any questions?”

  No questions. He had fainted.

  “Wake up, Drover, this is no time to show your true colors. Get up and act like a cowdog.” I pushed him up to a sitting position. “Now, any questions?”

  “My leg hurts.”

  “That’s not a question.”

  “Is this real?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you be pretty mad if I stayed in the house tonight?”

  “Yes. Your career on this ranch would come to a sudden end, and it’s possible that your life would too. All right, can you handle the situation?”

  “No.”

  “Let me rephrase the question.” I gave him a menacing growl and showed him some fangs. “Can you handle the situation?”

  “No . . . yes . . . I think . . . maybe . . . I’ll try . . .”

  “That’s better. Well, Drover, I’m fixing to leave on a very dangerous mission. If I’m not back in three days, you can assume . . . well, the worst. I have only one request to make.”