The Case of the Saddle House Robbery

by John R. Erickson

  “Yeah, it has a different set of squeaks.”

  I glared at the runt. “Are you explaining this case or am I?”

  “Well . . .”

  “I was about to say, before you butted into my lecture, I was about to say that this new vehicle has a different set of squeaks.”

  “I’ll be derned.”

  “Which leaves open the possibility . . .” I began pacing, as I often do when my mind is racing at a high rate of speed. “Drover, I don’t want to alarm you, but we must consider the possibility that this vehicle is not Slim’s pickup.”

  “That’s what I said. I think that’s what I said.”

  “Different squeaks mean a different pickup, Drover. Don’t you get it? Slim doesn’t drive a different pickup. He drives one that’s always the same. Holy smokes, we may have blown the case wide open.” I stopped pacing and whirled around. “Do you see where this is leading?”

  “Well . . . not really. No.”

  I cut my eyes from side to side and dropped my voice to a whisper. “The saddle thief, Drover. Remember what Slim said about the saddle thief? This could be him! Everyone is gone, Drover, and we are now the ranch’s only line of defense. Are you ready for some serious combat?”

  His eyes crossed. “What’s under the shed?”

  “What? Oh, the shed. A secret passageway to some island, but that has nothing to do with this case. Are you ready for some serious . . .”

  In a flash, he was gone. Before my very eyes, he zipped under the shed.

  “Drover, come out this very instant, and that is a direct order!”

  I heard his voice. “Hank, there’s a bird dog in here.”

  “That’s Jake, but he’s already gone to Mega­blaster, so it couldn’t possibly be him.”

  “I think I’ll go with him. This old leg just went out. It’s killing me!”

  “Drover, come out here. We have a very important mission.”

  “Oh, my leg!”

  My gaze darted from side to side. Did I dare take the time to deal with Drover’s disobedience and give him the tongue-lashing he so richly deserved? My ears caught the sounds of the pickup. It had just pulled up in front of the corrals.

  “Drover, this could be a very dangerous assignment. I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to handle it alone . . . would you?”

  “Oh heck no.”

  “Good. Come out at once. As the elite troops of the Security Division we’ll go down and check it out together.”

  “Boy, that sounds great. I always wanted to be a leaky troop.”

  “Good. Let’s move out.”

  “You know, I’d love to go with you, but I’m on a desert island and the pirates are coming. Jake said so.”

  “Don’t listen to Jake. Listen to me. Hello? Drover?”

  “I can’t hear you, Hank. We’re surrounded by pirates and monkeys throwing coconuts! You’d better go on without me.”

  “Very well, Drover, I’ll have to handle it myself, but I must warn you that this will all go into my report. I intend to throw the book at you.”

  “Oh darn.”

  “Two books. One for being a chicken liver, and the second for using naughty language in the line of duty.”

  “Oh drat.”

  “Three books! Keep it up, Drover, and you may even have to spend some time with your nose in the corner.”

  “The monkeys are coming!”

  What were those two jugheads doing in there? Pirates . . . monkeys throwing coconuts . . . desert islands . . . Well, I didn’t have time to deal with their problems. I had a problem of my own, and there was some chance that it might be a big one.

  I swallowed hard and took a big gulp of air. I would have to go into this without a backup. I began creeping down the hill toward the corrals. Fifty yards from Point Zero, I paused to reconnoodle the situation. I lifted my ears to their Full Gathering Mode and squinted my eyes to . . . I don’t know why I squinted my eyes, but it seemed to improve my vision.

  Peering through a clump of dead weeds, I saw . . .

  Are you ready for this? Hang on to something.

  I saw a pickup that was NOT Slim’s. It was a totally different, unidentified, unauthorized vehicle with a camper on the back, and it was backed up to the . . . uh-oh. It was backed up to the saddle shed.

  Do you see the pattern here? It was looking bad, very bad. And it got worse, because just then, I saw a man climb out of the pickup. Do I dare describe him? He was a smallish man with beady little eyes and a stringy black mustache. He wore a baseball cap on his . . . well, on his head, of course, I mean, where else would you . . .

  He was wearing a baseball cap on his head and a pair of sneakers on his feet. Obviously, he was no cowboy. He glanced around in all directions, opened the saddle house door, and went inside.

  Gulp.

  This was it. The pieces of the puddle . . . the pieces of the puzzle, I should say, had fallen together, and okay, maybe I was a little nervous. Who wouldn’t have been nervous?

  We had a dangerous crinimal prowling around in the saddle shed.

  I was alone on the ranch.

  I would have to place my life on the clothesline and engage this guy in a fight to the death.

  We just didn’t know whose death would come first—mine or his.

  Chapter Eight: Gee, What a Nice Guy!

  I went creeping toward the saddle shed door. At this point in the procedure, I still had a faint hope that this might turn out to be a false alarm.

  I heard someone moving around inside. I lifted my right ear and fine-tuned the sound.

  Sneakers, probably an older pair, moving about on the cement floor.

  Okay, I was more than a little nervous, but who wouldn’t have been? Think about it. There was only one way in and one way out of the saddle shed. Once I broke down the door and went charging inside . . .

  HUH?

  The door swung open and I saw the man come out.

  It wasn’t Slim. It wasn’t Loper. It was a man I had never seen before!

  Oh, and did I mention that he was carrying a saddle? Yes, he was carrying a saddle and he threw it into the camper and went back inside the saddle shed.

  That could mean only one thing: HE WAS THE SADDLE THIEF!

  Was I scared? Might as well come clean and admit it. Yes, I was scared, and we’re not talking about mere nervousness or excitement or anticipation here. We’re talking about plain old scared. And why not? I’d never tried to make a single-handed solo arrest of a saddle burglar.

  Yes, my mouth was suddenly dry and my knees were suddenly feeling weak and trembly. I even threw a glance back over my shoulder, in the faint hope that Drover might have changed his mind and vultured out to help me. Ventured out, I should say. But that was a pretty faint and desperate hope, and it should give you some idea of how . . . well, small and lonesome I suddenly felt.

  Gulk.

  You know, sometimes a dog finds himself trapped by his own reputation, his own notion of who he is. Drover was still hiding under the toolshed, but nobody expected anything else out of the runt. But with me . . . the expectations were high, including my own, and . . . gulp . . . that’s what kept me moving forward, when certain parts of my body and mind would have sure preferred being somewhere else.

  I took a deep breath of air and tried to calm my nerves. It would all be over in five minutes, and at that time it would either be a memory or . . . I didn’t want to peek into that dark hole.

  This was my job. It had to be done, and there was nobody else to do it.

  I slipped up to the door and stepped inside. There he stood near the northwest corner. He was lifting a saddle off the saddle rack.

  I saw no sign of a gun, knife, club, or bomb on his person. That was fairly encouraging news.

  Could I take him, one-on-one? I did a quick review o
f all the moves and throws and punches and biting maneuvers I had learned about Marshall Art.

  It’s funny, the things that pop into your mind in moments of great tension. I had no idea who Marshall Art was.

  But that thought passed quickly. The moment of truth had arrived.

  He hadn’t seen or heard me. He had no idea that he was being observed or that I was blocking the only doorway out.

  I lifted Lip Shields and exposed Tooth Daggers. A deep rumbling growl began in the lower part of my throat. I went to Full Raised Hackles.

  I had thrown down the goblet. The next move was up to him.

  The growl startled him. His head shot up and he turned his head around, very slowly. It was then that I discovered a secret message written on the front of his cap. It said . . . Richardson Seeds.

  Did that have any deep dark meaning? No. It was just a cap.

  Our eyes met and were welded together by the fires of fear and suspicion. And maybe even hatred. I didn’t know this guy and he didn’t know me, but we came from opposite sides of the law, and that made us enemies—enemies for the moment, enemies for life, enemies forever.

  His eyes narrowed. He ran his tongue over his upper lip—and also through that stringy mustache of his. I’ve never had any use for stringy mustaches or for the kind of creeps who wear them.

  And then, in the silence, with the two of us facing each other and pondering the deadly combat that would surely follow . . . he spoke.

  I know you’re probably sitting on the very edge of your chair, scared out of your wits. I understand that. I could hear my old heart pounding like a whole marching band of bass drums.

  Pretty scared.

  Real scared.

  When he spoke, his voice broke the brittle silence like . . . I don’t know what. Like a tray of glasses dropped on the floor. Like a brick thrown through a window.

  He spoke and here’s what he said. “Well now! What have we here? It’s a puppy dog.” He gave me a weak smile. I answered with a firm growl. “I’ll bet you’re the guard dog around here.”

  Right.

  “You sure are bristled up, but you know what, doggie? I’ll bet me and you could be friends.” He grinned. I didn’t. “What do you say about that?”

  Not a chance.

  “Oh, I know what’s eating you. You probably think I don’t belong in here.”

  Right. Exactly.

  “Well, that’s easy. See, I’m a cobbler. I fix saddles and stuff for all these ranchers and cowboys, and your master . . . you know him, don’t you?”

  Of course I knew him.

  “He called me just the other day and asked if I could come out here to the ranch and pick up a bunch of saddles, take ’em to my shop in town, oil ’em up real good, fix the busted saddle strings, stitch the horns and cantles, and just give ’em a regular tune-up. Did you know that?”

  No.

  “I mean, you look like the kind of dog who would know just about everything that happens on his ranch. Maybe your master just didn’t want to trouble you with a tiny detail like this.”

  Well, I . . . yes, maybe Loper had mentioned something about it, but . . .

  He shrugged and kept smiling. “He might not be too proud if he knew you was trying to keep me from doing my job. See what I mean?”

  I wasn’t convinced.

  “Yes, I’m just an old boy who works hard to make a living. I’ve got a serious heart condition, you know.” His eyes grew distant and the smile faded from his lips. “The doctors say . . . I don’t have much longer for this old world, maybe two years, maybe . . . not even that long.”

  Gosh.

  “And me and the little woman have five little kids—the cutest, sweetest little children you ever saw, and you know, they’d just fall in love with a dog like you. I always wanted to get ’em a dog, but . . . never could afford it.”

  Gee whiz. That was kind of touching.

  “The little woman, she works all day at the Dairy Queen, then she comes home at night and irons shirts for fifty cents apiece. I have this little saddle business, when my health permits me to work, but we just barely get by. You know, my friend, it’s a hard old world out there.”

  Yes, I . . . I knew that.

  “Anyway, I didn’t want to burden you with my troubles. It’s a good life. I just take it one day at a time and hope that . . . well, when I’m gone, the Good Lord will look after those little children.”

  Gosh. The poor kids.

  He reached two fingers into his shirt pocket and came out with . . . what was it? A roll of something. He peeled off some paper and popped a brownish object into his mouth. He chewed it up and noticed that I was watching.

  “Candy. Chocolate candy. You want one?”

  No thanks. I never took candy from strangers. And besides, eating candy on duty was against reg­ulations. No thanks.

  “It’s pretty good stuff. Kind of hard to chew, but I love chocolate. It’s the one little luxury I allow myself. Sure you don’t want some?”

  I was sure. No candy, period.

  “Well, at least come over and smell it. You might accidentally like it, and you might even decide that I’m not such a bad guy. Come on.”

  No, I really . . . okay, one little sniff wouldn’t hurt anything.

  I eased toward his outstretched hand, but I was ready to spring into action if this turned out to be some kind of trick. I gave it a sniffing and . . . hmm, by George, it did smell pretty good, but as far as eating chocolates on the job, I really . . .

  “Go on, pup, take it. Don’t you deserve a piece of chocolate?”

  Well . . . yes, sure, since he put it that way. Maybe I did deserve a, uh, small reward.

  I took it from his hand and backed away, just in case.

  He was right about it being hard to chew. Musht have been caramel or whapever you call thap schick shewy shtuff. It kind of gummmmmed up my tcheeth and I had a heck of a chime . . . but delicious? Yes sir, it was . . . glop, slunk, smork . . . a great piece of candy.

  “That’s pretty fine candy, ain’t it?”

  Oh yeah. Delicious.

  “It sure would gum up a set of false teeth, wouldn’t it?”

  Right. You bet.

  “’Scuse me just a second, pup, and I’ll load this last saddle in my pickup. I’ll be right back. Don’t go away.”

  Fine. Sure.

  He left with the saddle and I concentrated on . . . you know, that candy was kind of like a tough piece of meat. The longer you chewed it, the bigger it got. I was still working on it when he came back and started looking at the bridles hanging on the wall.

  “Well, lookie here. What a pretty silver-mounted bit! And didn’t your master tell me that the headstall on this bit needed some fixing?”

  Yeah . . . slurp, glop . . . he probably did. Those guys were always tearing something up.

  He hung the bridle on his shoulder and picked out another one. Then he looked down at me.

  “You ready for another piece?”

  No, by George, that was great candy, but it was about to wear me out.

  He brought the roll out of his pocket, peeled off another piece, and flipped it in my direction, and more or less on instinct, I . . . well, snagged it right out of the air.

  He laughed. “Nice catch, pooch. I can see that you’re a pretty high-class kind of dog.”

  It showed, huh? This guy was pretty . . . slorp, glop . . . sharp.

  “I shouldn’t be eating candy anyways, not with this kidney problem of mine.”

  Yes . . . gorp, slop . . . that was true.

  “I just hope the doctors find a cure before it’s too late.”

  I went to Slow and Caring Wags on the tail section and gave him my most sincere look of sincerity.

  “Well, see you around, Shep. It’s been great knowing you.”

/>   And with that, he climbed into his pickup and drove away.

  Chapter Nine: I’m Trapped in Madagascar!

  Gee, what a nice guy. Imagine me thinking that he was a saddle thief!

  Actually, I’d never been convinced that he was a thief—not 100 percent. Okay, maybe my first impression had been . . . that is, he’d seemed a little slippery at first, but first impressions are often false and incorrect. Once we’d established a deeper relationship, well, it became obvious that this was a good, honest, hardworking man who was just trying to support his family.

  Great guy. And the fact that he gave candy to dogs . . . well, that didn’t hurt his reputation at all. I mean, what kind of person gave candy to dogs? Only the best, brightest, and most sincere. And it really made me sad to know that he had that terrible heart condition.

  Or was it his kidneys? Something like that. Yes, we would all hope for a cure.

  Poor guy. And poor kids!

  Well, it had been a pretty exciting day, with a few ups and downs, but everything had turned out just right. I couldn’t wait to tell Drover about all the adventures he had missed, so I left the empty saddle shed and hiked up the hill and went straight to the toolshed. I poked my nose under the crawl space.

  “Drover, are you in there?”

  “Well . . . I’m not sure. Where’s the saddle thief?”

  I couldn’t help chuckling at his weird ideas. “There was no saddle thief, just as I suspected, and if you’ll come out, I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Oh . . . maybe I’d better stay here in Madagascar.”

  “Drover, please don’t embarrass me. You’re under the toolshed. There is no such place as Maska­batter.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Well . . . it looks pretty real to me. Palm trees. The ocean. Oh, and lookie there. It’s a ship, a big ship. You ought to come in and see it, Hank. It’s nice.”

  I heaved a sigh. “Okay, I’ll come look, but I must warn you, Drover, I don’t believe any of this stuff.”