Let’s step into the Map Room and study a chart of the ranch and surrounding territory. Okay, here we are at the feed shed on the west end of ranch headquarters. Directly to the west of the feed shed, we have this fence running north and south, separating the home pasture from the horse pasture.
The “home pasture” gets its name from the fact that the home of Loper and Sally May sits pretty muchly in the center of it, and the “horse pasture” was so named because . . . well, because that’s where we keep the horses. If we kept black cows in that pasture, we might call it the “black cow pasture,” but we don’t so we don’t.
It’s kind of complicated but the thing to remember is that horses stay in the horse pasture.
Okay, notice that the creek winds its way through the horse pasture. An ordinary dog making a trek across this pasture on a scorching hot summer day would follow the creek, right? Of course he would. Why? Because trees grow along the creek and an ordinary dog would be interested in staying in the shade, sparing himself from being broiled alive in the glare of the sun.
But that brings us to the kernel of the nutshell. If dogs crave the shade of graceful cottonwood trees, who else do you suppose might be spending the afternoon loafing in the shade along the creek?
Coyotes, which is precisely why I had made my generous offer to move Drover up to the varsity. In the event that we blundered into the afternoon camp of some cannibals, having Drover up there on the offensive line would, uh, open up a few options, so to speak.
But Drover had blown that opportunity, so maybe you’re beginning to see the outlines of my new game plan. Instead of following the creek, I would set a course . . . here, look at the map . . . set a course two hundred yards north of the creek. As you can see, the new course would deny me the luxury of walking in the shade, but it would also deny lounging cannibals the luxury of eating me.
Pretty shrewd, huh? You bet, and now you’ve had an inside look at my plan for this mission: Stick to the high ground, endure the glare of the sun, and avoid nasty confrontations with cannibals along the creek.
I was ready. I took one last compass reading from the sun and set a course of two-five-zero-zero, and marched out into the pasture. “Be brave, Sardina, your hero is coming!” I knew she wouldn’t hear my call but that was okay. It made me feel braver and kind of took my mind off the heat.
And boy, it was hot! After marching the first quarter mile in the glaring sun, I was panting so hard, I had to switch my tongue over to the left side of my mouth. Some of your town dogs and ordinary yard mutts pant with their tongues pointing straight ahead. What they don’t know is that a dog can do a better job of cooling himself down when his tongue hangs out the left side of his mouth. It makes the old tongue look kind of like a dead fish, but so what? It works.
Anyway, it wasn’t a great day to be out on a hike, but I had an excellent reason for . . . HUH?
Okay, let’s pause here for just a moment to review our, uh, Marching Plans. In drawing up our plans, we had devised a clever strategy for avoiding coyotes, remember? But what you forgot to bring up in our planning sessions was that we would be trekking across the horse pasture and that horse pastures almost always contain . . . what?
Horses. Remember our previous discussions about horses? They are hateful, spiteful, arrogant, overbearing bullies who also happen to be huge, and they love to torment dogs. I mean, show ’em a badge that says you’re Head of Ranch Security and they’ll laugh in your face. Tell ’em that you’re on a very important mission and they’ll laugh even harder. Tell ’em that they’re all under arrest . . .
Don’t ever tell a herd of horses they’re under arrest. It will backfire every time. One dog should never threaten to arrest thirteen head of horses, each of them weighing over a thousand pounds, but you know, sometimes in a flash of anger, we say things we later regret.
This is painful. I would rather skip over it so that the little children would never know . . . I mean, how can the Head of Ranch Security preserve law and order when . . . well, when he’s being chased around the pasture by thirteen head of mocking, shrieking horses whose huge teeth are trying to snap off his tail?
It was a shameful, humiliating experience, and the less we say about it, the better. Let’s just say that if a dog runs in circles long enough, horses will get bored and leave. That’s what happened, and as the cowards trotted away, I yelled, “And let that be a lesson to you! Get out of my horse pasture and don’t ever come back!”
Told them, huh? You bet. The big bullies.
I glanced around and noticed I had moved down along the creek, only a short distance from the shade of a big cottonwood tree. I had worked up quite a sweat, so I trotted over to the . . .
Oops. Coyotes. Two of them, lying in the shade of the cottonwood tree.
Chapter Fifteen: Warning! This Chapter Contains Cannibal Material!
It was Rip and Snort, the very thugs I had planned to avoid, and would have avoided if the stinking horses hadn’t messed up my plan. My first thought was that I had landed myself in a big mess of trouble, but then I noticed an important detail.
The brothers didn’t look their usual selves—not fearsome and ferocious but wilted, worn out, and bedraggled. They were lying in the shade, see, and hardly moving, panting for air while their tongues dripped water and their eyes held me in a listless gaze.
All at once, a bold thought popped into my mind. “I think I can talk my way out of this.” So instead of trying to run away, as most of your ordinary mutts would have done, I switched on a pleasant smile. “Hey, Rip and Snort, great to see you again! How’s it going? Beautiful day, huh?”
With great effort, Snort mumbled, “Dutiful day for dummy ranch dog. Not so dutiful for coyote brothers.”
“Really? Gee, what seems to be the problem?”
“Day too hotter and hottest for coyote wearing fur coat.”
I moved closer and studied their wooden eyes. “Yes, I see what you mean. Snort, I hate to tell you this, but you guys look awful.”
“Hunk not look so wonderful, too.”
“Right. It’s this heat. And you know, fellas, on a day like today, the last thing a guy would ever think about is . . . well, food. Eating. Am I right about that?” No response. “I mean, just think about eating a piece of dry cornbread when your mouth is already parched.”
“Hunk not talk about cornbread. Make Snort’s mouth feel like bag of dirt.”
“Right, that’s what I mean. It’s way too hot and dry to be thinking about crumbly powdery CORNBREAD.”
Snort shot me a killer look, rose to his feet, and rumbled over to me. “Hunk shut trap and not talk about dry stuff when coyote brothers got big boom-boom thirsty in mouth!”
“Well, sure. I was just . . .”
Up came his right paw and he clubbed me over the head. BONK! “Hunk shut trap.”
“I can handle that, and besides, I need to be getting along anyway.” I began edging toward the west. “I’m starting a new job and, well, I wouldn’t want to be late.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“No, I’m serious. Showing up late on the first day would be no laughing matter.”
“Ha ha ha!”
“But you keep laughing.”
“Maybe Hunk stick around for supper, oh boy.”
“Supper? In this heat? Who could think about . . . listen, maybe we could discuss this another time. What do you say?”
They said nothing, just stared at me and ran their respective tongues over their chops. I was getting a bad feeling about this and decided that it might be a good time to test out our new Turbo Six application. I reached for the throttle and pushed it to the Blast Off Position. The engines screamed and I went zooming . . .
BAM!
Up to that very moment, the brothers had seemed as lifeless as rocks, but when I reached for the throttle, they sprang into action and blocked my p
ath. I hit ’em with a full head of steam. It was like a gnat hitting a barn door.
Snort raised his lips and showed me two rows of gleaming fangs. “Hunk stick around till cool of evening when coyote feel more hungry for eat.”
I coughed and struggled to my feet. “Oh. Well, since you put it that way . . . sure, what the heck.” I turned away from them so they couldn’t see the fear in my eyes. I mean, this deal had taken a big turn for the worse and I didn’t want them thinking that I was . . . well, scared out of my wits, which I was.
So I turned my face toward the south and suddenly realized that I was looking at a very important piece of information that had escaped me up to then: THE CREEK HAD GONE DRY.
Do you see the meaning of this? Maybe not, but I did, and a new plan began taking shape in the vast caverns of my mind. “So you guys are thirsty? Is that what you said?”
“Guys got big boom-boom thirsty in mouth.”
“Well, gee whiz, why don’t you just get a drink?”
The brothers hacked out a jagged laugh, and Snort pointed toward the creek. “Creek gone dry, gee whiz no water.”
“Well, sure, but what about root beer?” They gave me empty stares. “You don’t know about the root beer deposits below the sand?” More blank stares. “Oh, well, I’m sorry I mentioned it. You’d probably think it was too much trouble anyway. Don’t give it a thought.”
The brothers went into a whispering conference, then Snort said, “Brothers not believe in root beer.”
“That’s fine, Snort. We can still be friends, even though you don’t believe in root beer.”
They whispered some more, then, “Ranch dog tell Rip and Snort about root beer.”
“How can I tell you about root beer if you don’t believe in it?”
Snort came rumbling over to me and showed me a clenched paw. “Snort believe in break Hunk’s face. Talk!”
“All right, but you don’t need to be so hateful about it.” I launched into a long discussion about how, in periods of drought, the creeks run dry and all the sweetness of the earth flows out of tree roots below the sand and forms vast reserves of root beer. “All you have to do is dig down into the sand and you’ll strike root beer.”
They howled with laughter and whopped each other on the back. “Hunk tell pretty funny story, but Rip and Snort not believe one word.”
“Well, that’s fine. I didn’t want to share it anyway. I mean, you guys may be bigger and stronger and faster than me, but don’t forget that this is still my ranch—my ranch, my roots, and my root beer.”
Behind my back, I could hear them whispering and a moment later, Snort loomed up beside me. He pointed toward the creek bed. “Hunk dig.”
“Yes, but you said . . .”
“Hunk dig! And better find root beer pretty quick, oh boy!”
He gave me a shove and stood over me while I started digging. “Snort, don’t expect miracles. These things take time.” I dug and dug. Ten minutes passed, and I had built a hole maybe two feet deep.
Snort stared into the hole and made a sour face. “Sand still dry. Hunk dig faster.”
“Hey listen, it’s hot out here. I’m digging as fast as I can.”
I dug some more, while Snort sniffed the sand for signs of moisture. Three feet down, I was still pulling up dry sand, and I’ll bet you’re starting to worry. Maybe you’re thinking: “Hank’s really done it this time, telling the cannibal brothers a big whopper about root beer under the ground.”
Good point. I mean, never make a cannibal mad before suppertime, right? That’s good advice, the kind of common sense wisdom that can help a dog live a long and happy life. But here’s the scoop. There was one particle of truth in the story. In the heat of summer, the creek sometimes goes dry, but you can always find wet sand, and sometimes even water, if you dig down far enough.
Now do you see where this is going? If not, just sit back and enjoy the show. I’m pretty sure you’ll be impressed.
Okay, I was digging a root-beer well in the middle of the dry creek bed on a very hot afternoon. Rip and Snort were about to die of thirst and stood over the hole, broiling in the sun and getting more impatient by the second.
At last, I hit some wet sand. “Here we go, guys, we’re almost there!”
Snort sniffed the wet sand and beamed a wicked grin. “Hunk better hurry up quick or brothers get madder and maddest!”
“Snort, I’m digging just as fast as I can.”
“Ha! Hunk dig like snail, slower than slow.”
“For your information, pal, I’m the fastest digger I ever met, and the fastest digger on this whole ranch.” The brothers roared with laughter. “Oh yeah? Do you know anybody who could dig faster?”
Snort stuck his nose close to my face. “Hunk dig like flea. Snort faster diggest in whole world, oh boy!”
Rip scowled, shook his head and grunted, “Uh-uh!” He pointed to himself, as if to say that he was the fastest digger in the whole world.
Snort made a sour face and glared down at me. “Hunk get out of hole.”
“What? Are you crazy? I started drilling this well and I’m going to take it all the way down to root beer, and no fleabag coyote is going to . . .”
In the blink of an eye, Snort darted his head into the hole, snapped his jaws around the scruff of my neck, jerked me out of the hole, and tossed me aside like stuffed toy.
Then he pounded his chest with both front paws and roared, “Now Hunk watch Snort dig up whole world!”
But while Snort was pounding his chest, Rip dived head-first into the hole and started moving dirt, only by then it was mud. The first plop of mud hit Snort right in the mouth and there for a second, I thought he was going to hurt somebody, either me or his brother. But then he smacked his lips and a big silly grin spread across his mouth.
“Uh! Root beer! Berry good for fix up boom-boom thirsty!” And with that, he leaped high in the air and dived into the hole. Dove. Diven. Phooey.
I could have told him that one hole in the sand, dug by one dog, isn’t big enough to hold two cannibals, but he didn’t ask and you can guess what happened next. All at once we had two coyotes wedged into a hole, and two sets of coyote legs cranking around like they were pedaling a bicycle, but without the bicycle.
And there was a bunch of noise coming from the bottom of that hole.
Well, this seemed a pretty good time for me to move along, but I couldn’t resist giving them one last good-bye. “How does it look, guys? Any sign of root beer yet? No? Well, darn the luck. Hey listen, if you make it to Australia, maybe somebody’ll bring you a glass of iced tea. See you around, suckers. Ha ha ha!”
You know, sometimes Security Work can fall into a dull routine, but there’s nothing dull about yelling, “See you around, suckers,” to a couple of helpless, stranded coyotes in a hole.
Wow! I loved it and went skipping off to my new assignment as Chief Arkinsawlogist of the Entire Wolf Creek District of Texas. What a great day to be a dog!
Of course there was one tiny problem with this incident. Once you’ve served up a smashing defeat to a couple of cannibals, you need to avoid them for a while. I mean, those guys are a few bales short of a full load of brains, but they’re bad about carrying a grudge.
Maybe I shouldn’t have called them suckers. Maybe I should have just walked away and kept my mouth shut. When you’re a winner, you don’t need to brag or boast or gloast, even though it’s great fun.
I reached for the notepad of my mind and scratched down a message. “Avoid all coyotes for six months.”
There! It was done and now I could turn my full attention to my new job assignment and . . . mercy, I had almost forgotten about her in all the excitement. The lovely Sardina Bandana. My mind pulled up a photograph of her as she was leaving my ranch, weeping rivers of tears and calling out my name.
I felt a new wave of en
ergy coursing through my body. “Fear not, O Beloved, your Hank has fought his way through the cannibal armies and is coming to save you!”
Chapter Sixteen: I Start My New Job
The rest of the journey went off without a hitch and I hardly even noticed the heat. Okay, I noticed the heat, but I was so pumped up about the new direction my life had taken that I didn’t let it bother me.
The dig site was easy to find. I could see it half a mile away: six or seven pickups and cars parked in a row beside a collection of tents that looked like flowers in the distance, red and blue and green against a background of drab yellow grass.
I rolled into camp around three o’clock and . . . you know, I had sort of expected a welcoming committee—not anything fancy, but maybe two or three of their top people who would drop their digging tools and rush out to welcome me. I mean, how often does a Head of Ranch Security show up at these deals?
Nobody even noticed I was there! Oh well. I tried not to get my feelings hurt. I knew they were busy, and to be fair about it, a lot of those folks didn’t realize who I was.
Do we need to do a quick review of what’s involved in an arkinsawlogy dig? Maybe so, and we can start with the correct pronunciation of the word. It’s archeology, not arkinsawlogy. I don’t know who started calling it arkinsawlogy . . . well, yes I do.
Drover, and that should come as no great surprise. The runt has trouble remembering his own name, much less big scientific words like arkinsawlogy.
Archeology.
Archeologists dig around in the dirt and look for old things, but they don’t do it with backhoes or even with shovels. No sir, when I got there, I saw seven grown men on their knees, humped over like snails and dragging trowels across patches of dirt that were as square and flat as wooden boxes.
This was the “site.” That’s what they called it, the site, and they had it laid out in several squares that were marked by string lines. The digging took place in the shade provided by a big blue awning, a kind of tent, open at the sides and held up by poles that were anchored in the ground by ropes and stakes.
The Case of the Most Ancient Bone Page 9
