The Case of the Midnight Rustler

by John R. Erickson

  I had completed my work on the two front tires and was on my way to the left rear when I heard an odd sound. I stopped and listened. There it was again. It sounded like . . . I wasn’t sure what it sounded like.

  The last gasps of a drowning victim? A diesel engine that needed some repair work?

  It appeared to be coming from the bed of the pickup, so I slipped around to the rear, went into a deep crouch position, leaped up into the back end, and landed right in the middle of something huge and hairy.

  Yikes, what was that thing? A huge fur coat? A dead horse? Whatever it was, it had a head, a BIG head, and it rose from the dead, so to speak, and revealed two sleepy eyes. For a long, tense moment, I stared at it and it stared back at me.

  At last I was able to fight back my feelings of shock and surprise and say, “I don’t know who you are, fella, but don’t get any smart ideas. We’ve got this place surrendered.” I stared at him. “Sur­rounded, I should say. Holy smokes, are you a horse or a dog?”

  I mean, this guy was HUGE!

  He grinned and yawned and spoke in a slow voice. “Howdy. Name’s Brewster. Where we at?”

  “You’re in the back of someone’s pickup, Brewster, but also on my ranch. That’s the part that concerns me. I’m the Head of Ranch Security, you see.”

  “Aw heck. Last thing I knew, we were in front of Uncle Johnny’s house. I guess I fell asleep.” He yawned again. “Takes a lot of sleep to keep this old body percolatin’.”

  “Yes, that’s a large body, Brewster.”

  “Thanks. Everybody says that. I don’t feel all that big, but I guess I am.”

  “You are, believe me. I’d guess you’ve got some St. Bernard in you somewhere. I’m not the kind of guy who talks about other dogs having big feet, but those feet of yours are really something.”

  “Yeah.” He stood up and stretched. “They always said that I got my big feet and gracefulness from the St. Bernard side, and my ferocious disposition from the German Shepherd side.”

  He grinned and yawned again. That made about three yawns in the space of three minutes. Then he lumbered over to the endgate of the pick­up, and in the process of doing that, he bumped into me and stepped on my foot.

  It felt like I’d been stepped on by an elephant and run over by a truck. I squalled.

  He gave me a sleepy look. “Oops, sorry. I’m a little awkward first thing in the morning. Takes me a while to wake up.”

  “Hey Brewster, it’s not the first thing in the morning. It’s going on ten o’clock, and around here, we figger the day’s half over at ten o’clock.”

  “Yep, and if a guy’s going to catch himself a nap, he ought to do it in the middle of the day.”

  He lumbered back to his spot at the front of the pickup, stepped on my foot again, and flopped down. The whole pickup shook when he bedded down. He crossed his paws in front of him and rested his chin on the paws. Then his eyes appeared to roll back in his head.

  “Just one moment, Brewster. I have some questions I’d like to . . .”

  “Skaw, snork, skrunk, zzzzzzzzzzz.”

  The window of opportunity had slammed shut. Brewster was asleep again.

  Chapter Three: Chosen for a Dangerous Assignment

  So there I was, looking down at a sleeping horse in dog’s clothing, and I still didn’t know what he was doing on my ranch. I wasn’t much inclined to wake him up again. I mean, this dog was obviously a threat to the health and safety of everyone around him. He could land a guy in the vet clinic just by walking across the room.

  Those were the biggest feet I’d ever seen, and boy, did they HURT when they stepped on you!

  I left him where he lay and returned to the machine shed, in hopes that I might be able to listen in on Uncle Johnny’s conversation and piece together a motive for his presence on my ranch.

  I knew there was a motive somewhere, had to be. For every action, there’s a reaction. For every auto, there’s a motive. Uncle Johnny’s auto was still parked in front of the machine shed, and my next assignment was to do a little automotive research on the sly.

  I slipped into the machine shed on feet that were trained to make no sound whatever, and took up a position in the shadows. For the next several minutes I monitored the conversation, and soon a pattern began to develop.

  Piece #1 of the Puzzle: Uncle Johnny was summering 60 head of cows with calves in a pasture called “The Canyon Pasture,” which joined our outfit on the north end.

  Piece #2 of the Puzzle: This so-called “Canyon Pasture” was so called because it had a big canyon running through the middle of it. A lot of dogs would have missed this detail, but I picked it up right away. See, if they’d called it the “Creek Pasture,” that would have indicated that . . . well, maybe you get the picture.

  Piece #3 of the Puzzle: Uncle Johnny had been coming up short on his calf count and . . . here comes the shocker, so get ready . . .

  Piece #4 in the Puzzle: He had begun to suspect that someone or something was STEALING HIS CATTLE.

  After he had made this incredible revelation, seven eyes stared at him in disbelief. Seven eyes?

  That sounds odd, doesn’t it, and there aren’t too many ways you can get an odd number of eyes looking on in disbelief. Hang on a second while I run a spreadsheet on this and use some Heavy Duty Math and refigger the count. Let’s see:

  Loper.................two

  Slim..................two

  Me.....................two

  Two + Two + Two = 3t + 3w + 3o/t + w + o = 3 + 3 + 3 = 6

  Okay, six eyes stared at him in disbelief. Boy, I’ll tell you, in the Security Business we’d be lost without spreadsheet analysis and Heavy Duty Math. We use ’em every day, and I hope the kids will take notice of this.

  Learn that math, kids. It’s very important, especially if you want to go into crinimal work. Well, not exactly crinimal work. That suggests that we’re crinimals, which we’re not. Far from it. We’re working AGAINST the crinimals, and if you want to work against the crinimals, you’d better get your math.

  Where was I?

  Talking about careers, I guess. Careers are very important, and when you’re sliding down the banister of life, be careful not to get a splinter in your career.

  A little humor there, but I still can’t remember what I was talking about. Sometimes we use humor to conceal the fact that . . .

  It really annoys me to launch into an important discussion and then forget the dadgummed subject, makes a guy sound about half-goofy.

  Oh boy.

  This has never happened to me before, honest.

  I’ll get it here in just a second.

  This is embarrassing.

  Okay, I’ve got it now. Here we go. Seven eyes stared at Uncle Johnny in disbelief. Loper was the first to speak.

  “That’s a pretty serious charge. There’s lots of ground between a short count and cattle theft. I’d like to think we don’t have any rustlers around here.”

  Uncle Johnny nodded. “I know it’s serious, but I’ve ridden all the outside fences and they’re all in good shape. And I rode upon some tire tracks yesterday.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “That’s what I thought too. Uh-oh. They were made by a pickup and a stock trailer, and they weren’t mine. Boys, somebody’s been slipping into my pasture at night and stealing my calves. I don’t want to believe it, but there she is.”

  Loper pulled up a paint bucket and sat down. “What do you intend to do about it?”

  Uncle Johnny said that he’d already called the Cattle Raisers inspector and told him to be on the lookout for calves in the UJ brand. Then he hitched up his khaki pants.

  “Loper, it’s been a while since I put one of these mowers back together, but I think I could do it.”

  Loper studied him. “You jumped subjects there, Johnny. Was there suppos
ed to be a step or two between cow thieves and fixing this mower?”

  Uncle Johnny narrowed his eyes and grinned. “I thought you might catch that. Here’s my deal. If I help you get this mower into the field, maybe you can spare old Slim for a little moonlight work.”

  Slim’s brows jumped three inches on that. “Whoa now, hold on just a minute. What’s moonlight work?”

  Uncle Johnny explained his idea. Slim would load a packhorse with camping gear and ride up into the canyon, make camp in an isolated spot, and wait for the rustlers to strike again. Since he wouldn’t be taking a pickup, there would be no fresh tire tracks to alert the rustlers.

  Pretty slick idea, seemed to me.

  “Yeah, well, there’s one little detail that bothers me,” said Slim. “Bein’ a range detective ain’t one of my many skills, and I’ve got a natural aversion to gettin’ myself shot.”

  “Oh phooey, you ain’t going to get shot. You don’t have to catch ’em, son, just get close enough to take down a license number and a description of their pickup. The brand inspector can take it from there.”

  “Well . . .”

  “It’ll be easy as pie. All you have to do is lay around camp and sleep until they come.”

  “Now, I can handle that part.”

  “You got a good dog?”

  Slim’s gaze found me in the shadows. I held my head high and wagged my tail. By George, they wanted a good dog? Well, there I was, and it was about time somebody took notice.

  Slim shook his head. “Nope, just Hank.”

  “There you go. He’ll bark and let you know when somebody’s in the pasture. Until then, all you have to do is lay back and take life easy—and think about me and Loper down here, trying to get this mower put back together.”

  “It’s sounding better and better. I believe me and moonlight work could learn to get along.”

  Loper slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Slim, throw some camping gear together and have your camp set up before dark. We’ll slap this mower together and maybe I can get the alfalfa laid down tomorrow morning, before it dries out.”

  “What’ll I use for a packhorse?”

  Loper thought about that for a minute. “Why don’t you use that three-year-old colt?”

  “He ain’t broke, is all.”

  “He will be, by the time you get to the canyon. That would be the best thing in the world for that old colt. What do you have to lose?”

  Slim rolled his eyes. “Oh, let’s see: my life, my clothes, my pride, my reputation . . . little things like that.”

  “Well, it’s the little things that count, so I know you’ll be careful.” Suddenly Loper’s smile disappeared. “Slim, there’s only one thing about this deal that bothers me.”

  “Oh?”

  He placed a hand on Slim’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “It won’t be easy to carry on this farming without your expert advice and cheerful attitude.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “But I can accept that. I can even accept the possibility that once you get a packsaddle on old Jughead, he might jump off into the canyon and take you with him.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Those are acceptable risks, just part of the honor of being a cowboy.”

  “Yalp. Get to the point, Loper, I’m dying to hear this.”

  “Slim, the part that really bothers me is that you’ll be taking my wife’s favorite dog up into the canyons, on a dangerous assignment.”

  “I see, uh-huh.”

  “And I hope you understand how brokenhearted she’d be if anything was to happen to her beloved Hank.”

  My goodness, I had never expected . . . I’d never dreamed that Sally May felt so strongly about, well, ME. I mean, let’s face it. She and I had gone through some moments of tension and stress, and on more than one occasion I had been the victim of a misunderstanding.

  But hey, let me tell you. Loper’s words almost brought tears to my eyes. Suddenly I forgot all the rocks she’d thrown at me, all her cutting remarks about my “odor,” as she called it, all the tacky and hateful words she’d said in anger.

  Right then and there, I forgave her everything—because I knew that she really CARED. That means a lot to a dog, and I made a note to myself to give her an extra big juicy lick on the ankle the next time we met. Or maybe even on the face.

  Well, it was a very emotional moment for Slim and Loper, I could see that. Their loyal dog and Head of Ranch Security was going off on a dangerous assignment, and . . . well, that’s pretty heavy stuff.

  Slim nodded his head and, that was odd, seemed to be biting one side of his lip. “Tell Sally May that I’ll guard him with my life. Come on, pooch, we’ve got things to do and places to go.”

  Chapter Four: Sally May Punches My Face

  With my head held high, I fell in step beside Slim and we marched out of the machine shed.

  It was a moving experience, a cowboy and his trusted dog going out into the Great Unknown to fight for the ranch and protect it from evil forces. I could almost hear the band playing our battle song—drums, trumpets, cymbals . . . laughter?

  Hmm, that was odd. I was almost sure that my ears picked up the sounds of laughter coming from the machine shed. I couldn’t imagine why Loper and Uncle Johnny would be laughing in the midst of such a solemn ceremony. I mean, it seemed a little out of place to me.

  But as long as they were laughing and happy, who was I to complain? I had received the highest honor a dog can ever hope for—heartfelt expressions of appreciation and adoration—and that was good enough for me. Shucks, I was ready to go out and eat a couple of cattle rustlers for dinner.

  Just then, Drover came padding up, “Hi, Hank. Are you going somewhere?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Can I go too?”

  “Sure, Drover, we’d be glad to have you along.”

  He began hopping around in circles. “Oh boy, I’m all excited about this.”

  “I noticed.”

  “It gets kind of boring around here sometimes.”

  “Wherever you are, Drover, it gets kind of boring.”

  “Yeah, I hope it’s not just me.”

  “Oh no, surely not.”

  “Thanks, Hank. Where we going?”

  “Up into a deep dark canyon to catch a gang of bloodthirsty cattle rustlers.”

  Now get this. All of a sudden, and I mean instantly, it appeared that Mister Stub-Tail suffered a blowout on his left front leg. We’re talking about pain and agony and crippled for life.

  “Oh, drat the luck! This old leg picks the very worst times to go out on me. Maybe I’d better stick around here. I just don’t think I could stand the pain.”

  I kept walking. “I know you’ll hate to miss another big adventure.”

  “Yeah, it’s terrible, being an invalid all the time.” He began backing toward the machine shed. “It’ll be boring around here, but I’ll do my best to take care of things. Bye, Hank, and be careful.”

  I didn’t bother to say good-bye. Drover is so predictable. Sometimes I think . . . oh well. We’d be better off without him anyway.

  Slim had parked his pickup down by the gas tanks, and it appeared that we were headed in that direction. We marched down the hill, past the yard gate, and on to the gas tanks. Slim removed the lid from the pickup’s tank and began filling it with gas, and I saw my opportunity to take a quick dip in Emerald Pond—my own private name, by the way, for the overflow of the septic tank.

  On a hot summer day, there’s nothing quite as refreshing as a plunge into those healing waters. My coat of hair gets very hot in the summertime, don’t you see, and I can say without exaggeration that Emerald Pond has saved my life on more than one occasion.

  I went sprinting to the water’s edge and dived into its green embrace. Oh,
wonderful coolness! Oh, manly fragrance! I relaxed my legs and surrendered my whole entire being to cool floatinghood.

  It was then that I noticed Sally May coming down the path from the corrals. It was OUR dog path she was using, if you want to get technical about it, but I sure didn’t have any problem with her borrowing it for a while. Sally May is welcome to use our path any time she wants.

  Walking with her that morning was Baby Molly, age one year or thereabouts. It appeared that Molly was learning to walk on two legs, and I’ve often wondered why we dogs never learned that trick.

  How do you explain that? Both Little Alfred and Molly had started out walking on all fours, just the way a normal dog would do it, but then at some point they switched over to the two-legged approach.

  It makes me wonder if I missed a lesson or two in my early training. How come I can’t do that? I’ve tried it many times, but I could never go more than a few steps on two legs.

  Beats me. Maybe that’s just the way it’s supposed to be, but it does make a guy wonder.

  Anyways, there was Sally May, the very lady who, according to our intelligence reports, would be worried sick about me while I was on combat duty up the in the deep dark canyon.

  Yes, I was a very busy dog. Yes, I had many things on my mind as I prepared to go into combat against the Deadly Gang of Rustlers. But one of the marks of a true Head of Ranch Security is that he MAKES time for the important people in his life.

  I mean, in this line of work, a guy can get so wrapped up in his own affairs that he forgets to share himself with the very ones he’s protecting out there on Life’s Front Lines. At some point you just have to by George stop and smell the rose-colored glasses.

  The opportunity had presented itself for me to spend some quality time with Sally May and her little daughter, so I hauled my wet and highly conditioned body out of Emerald Pond and loped over to them.

  When I arrived, Sally May was kneeling beside Baby Molly and appeared to be engrossed in something. Oh yes. Molly held a big black bug in her fist and was trying to eat it.