The Case of the Measled Cowboy

by John R. Erickson

Loper shot him a glare. “That’s right, you go ahead and enjoy this, buddy, but one of these days you’ll find some sweet thing to marry, and I’m going to enjoy watching you.”

  At last Sally May came out of the house with Baby Molly. Loper made a dive to open the car door for her, but instead of getting in, she handed him the baby and rearranged all the luggage in the trunk and backseat. Loper’s eyes almost bugged out of his head, but he didn’t say anything.

  Slim watched and grinned. He caught Loper’s eye and gave him a little wave with two fingers. Loper ground his teeth and muttered words under his breath, until at last Sally May was ready to leave. Loper stuffed her into the car, handed her the baby, slammed the door, and trotted around to the driver’s side.

  His parting words to Slim were, “Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone. I guess you’ve had the measles, haven’t you?” He didn’t wait for the answer. He leaped into the car and they roared away.

  Slim waved good-bye. “Nope. Never had the measles, and don’t plan to either.”

  The car turned left at the county road, flew over the cattle guard, and zoomed off to the west, leaving a plume of white caliche dust hanging in the air.

  By this time Slim was slouching against the gate post. “Boy, there ain’t a breath of air this morning. The last time it was this still, we had a blizzard the next day. But it’s too early in the season for that.” He yawned. “Well, I’d better go check on the patient, and then I’m going to spend the next two days catching up on some of this work. You dogs can run the ranch. And remember what Loper said: don’t do anything stupid. I know that’ll be hard for y’all, but do your best, hear?”

  What was that supposed to mean? Okay, may­be he was trying to be funny, but sometimes . . . oh well. On this outfit, part of a dog’s job is ignoring most of what the people say.

  He shuffled through the gate, up the sidewalk, and into the house, humming a tune under his breath. No sooner was he inside the house than I heard something rattling the bushes on the south side of the house. My ears shot up and I turned to my assistant.

  “Did you hear that?”

  Drover gave me his usual grin. “Oh yeah, I heard the whole thing.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Well, I guess we can’t do anything stupid for two whole days.”

  “Not that. I heard a sound coming from those bushes over there.”

  “I’ll be derned.”

  We turned our respective eyes toward the alleged bushes and suddenly . . . holy smokes, a shock wave moved through my entire body and all the way out to the end of my tail, and I even heard a kind of gurgling bark work its way out of the inner depths of my throat.

  You won’t believe this, but right there in those bushes was crouched some kind of . . . some kind of humanoid monster . . . a midget monster with two arms and two legs, and he was wearing striped prison clothes! And he was grinning and waving at us and . . .

  Well, you know me, fellers. When I see monsters and things lurking around the house, I don’t just sit there looking simple. I bark. Yes siree, I ran backward three steps, raised the hair on the back of my back, and cut loose with a . . .

  Hold it. Cancel the Code Three. Forget what I said about . . .

  Okay, our latest intelligence reports had said that Little Alfred was sick, right? Sick with the measles and in bed, and so the last place we would have expected to find a sick child was in the bushes on the south side of the house, right? But guess who was in the bushes.

  Alfred. He was wearing his striped pajamas. And he sure didn’t look sick to me. He waved a greeting and put his finger to his lips and said, “Shhhhh!” Okay, fine. We could shhhhh, but what was he doing out of his bed, out of the house, and hiding in the bushes? It seemed pretty strange to me.

  But just then he answered my question. “I’m hiding fwom Swim.”

  Oh, so that was it. The little skunk was al­ready playing games with his baby-sitter, and the dust from his parents’ car had barely had time to settle. It appeared that old Slim might have bitten off more than he could bite.

  Bitten off more than he could bark.

  Bitten off more than . . . phooey.

  All at once it appeared that old Slim might have his hands cut out for him, and I had a feeling that he wouldn’t get much work done.

  Yes sir, if Slim had known what adventures lay ahead, I don’t think he ever would have let Loper and Sally May leave the ranch. I don’t want to reveal too much about this case, but you’ll never guess . . .

  Better not say any more.

  Chapter Three: Red Spots on Slim

  Well, it took Slim five minutes to figure out that Alfred was missing. He came out the back door and walked over to where Drover and I were standing. Sitting, actually. We had gotten tired of standing and had sat down beside the yard fence. Alfred was still hiding in the bushes, wearing a big devilish grin.

  Slim walked up to us and stopped. I noticed that I was feeling just a bit . . . well, guilty, you might say. Not that we’d done anything wrong. We hadn’t. We were as innocent as the driveled snow, but it just so happened that we knew where the guilty party was hiding.

  Anyways, I was suddenly smitten by feelings of guilt and began whapping my tail on the ground. These were Slow Whaps, the kind that are meant to express Deepest Concern and Purest Intentions. Drover must have been feeling guilty too, because he lowered his head and rolled over on his back.

  Slim towered over us. He had a toothpick parked on one side of his mouth. I waited for him to accuse us of . . . what? Hiding a crinimal? Contributing to the jailbreak of a minor? I didn’t know what-all kinds of crimes we might be accused of, but I was pretty sure we would get blamed for something.

  That’s the way it usually turns out around here.

  But you know what? He didn’t say a word about Little Alfred. What he said was, “Well, dogs, let’s load up some feed and go check them heifers.”

  And he started walking towards the pickup. I was shocked. I threw a glance over to the south side of the house and saw Little Alfred’s face appear. His eyes were as big as coffee cups, and his mouth was hanging open. Oh, and that devilish little grin had vanished.

  Slim opened the pickup door and whistled for us dogs to load up. Well . . . I didn’t feel good about leaving the boy, but we were being called to Active Duty and . . . what’s a dog supposed to do? We headed for the pickup and jumped into the cab.

  Slim climbed in behind us and slammed the door. He started the motor and put her in gear, and we began moving away from the house. We hadn’t gone far when we heard screaming and yelling. We looked back toward the yard and saw the midget in prison stripes running in our direction. He was wearing big fluffy house shoes on his feet and he was waving his arms.

  “Swim, Swim, don’t weeve me!” Slim put on the brake and waited. Alfred ran up to the pickup. His face showed a high degree of shock, and maybe some fear also. Yes, the boy was pretty scared. “Were ya’ll gonna weeve me here?”

  Slim nodded. “Uh-huh, that’s what we was fixing to do.”

  “You can’t weeve me all by myself!”

  “Why not? You left the place where you was supposed to be, so I figured you needed some time alone.” Alfred shook his head and his lip began to tremble. “Here’s the deal, son. I ain’t going to chase you all over this ranch. Either you’re sick or you ain’t. Declare yourself and let’s get on with it. If you’re sick, get back in that bed and stay there. If you ain’t sick, get in and let’s go check heifers.”

  “Well . . . I don’t feel sick.”

  “Then probably you ain’t. Load up and let’s go.” He stepped out and Alfred joined us dogs on the pickup seat. He didn’t look near as cocky as he had about five minutes before, and that was the end of his playing Hide and Seek with Slim.

  I must admit that I was impressed with the way Slim handled it. He m
ay have been a bachelor, but he knew how to get the lad’s attention. Don’t argue, don’t chase, just drive off.

  We drove around to the feed barn and Slim got out and threw a sack of feed into the rear of the pickup. When he climbed back inside, Alfred said, “Hey Swim, can I dwive?”

  Slim looked him over. “No.”

  “How come?”

  “You ain’t old enough. You’ve got to be six to drive a ranch pickup. You’re only five.”

  “Pweeze.”

  “What if you got arrested and throwed in jail? In jail, they’d make you eat spinach three times a day. How would you like that?”

  The boy narrowed his eyes. “Swim, you’re teasing me.”

  “I am, huh? Well crawl over here and sit in my lap. I guess we’ve got nothing better to do.”

  Alfred crawled into Slim’s lap and took the wheel. Slim let out the clutch and off we went to the Dutcher Creek pasture. Alfred “drove” all the way, and seemed right proud of himself.

  When we got to the pasture, Slim turned off the key and blew the horn. As the heifers began coming up out of the creek, he took off his hat and fanned his face.

  “Does it seem hot to y’all?” Alfred shook his head. “Boy, all at once I’m burning up.” Slim took off his jacket and fanned his face again. I noticed that it looked a little red . . . his face, not his hat—his face looked red and he even had a few beads of sweat on the sides of his nose.

  By then, the heifers had arrived. Slim got out and poured the feed on the ground in a long line. We waited for him to join us in the cab, but he didn’t, not for a while. Instead, he sat down on the back of the pickup bed and fanned his face again with his hat. At last he stepped down and walked around to the door. He had unbuttoned his shirt, and I noticed that his face had turned even redder than before.

  “Boys, I don’t know what’s come over me, but all at once I ain’t feeling so wonderful. I’ve got the sweats and I feel kindly weak. I sure hope this ain’t a cold coming on.”

  “Maybe you’re getting the measles.”

  Slim laughed. “Don’t think so. Grown people don’t get the measles. Measles and mumps is what they call ‘children’s diseases,’ see, and by the time you get my age . . . good honk, now I’m cold.” He put on his jacket and climbed into the cab. “Something ain’t quite right here. Maybe we’d better go back to the house and I’ll take me a little nap. I must be catching a sniffle.”

  “Hey Swim, you’ve got some wed spots on your face.”

  Slim gave the boy a hard stare. Then he looked at his face in the mirror. “Can’t see a thing, mirror’s too dirty, but I don’t have any red spots.”

  Alfred shrugged. “Okay, Swim.” Then he turned to us dogs and whispered, “He’s got wed spots.”

  I looked, and the boy was right. Hmmm.

  Slim started the pickup and we drove back to the house. By the time we got there, he wasn’t acting very perky. He kind of dragged his way toward the house, complaining that the sunlight was bothering his eyes. When he reached the yard gate, he stopped and leaned against the gate post.

  He unsnapped all the buttons on his shirt. Alfred stared at his bare chest. “Hey Swim, you’ve got wed spots on your chest.”

  Slim looked. “That’s a sure sign of a cold comin’ on. All I need is a thirty-minute nap. And you’re going to take one too.”

  “Aw Swim, can’t I stay out here and pway wiff my doggies?”

  “Negatory on that. I ain’t fixing to close my eyes with you and them dogs running a-loose. Come on. When we get up from our naps, I’ll make us a nice nourishing lunch.”

  “Oh good! How ’bout fwied chicken?”

  “It’s great stuff but it ain’t one of my recipes. Makes too many dirty dishes. Think of something else.”

  “Okay. How about . . .”

  “Better yet, let me give you the choices. We can have vienna sausage or Chef Boy Howdy’s canned spaghetti.”

  “Would you warm it up?”

  “No. It dirties the pot. We can eat it out of the can, the cowboy way.”

  “Couldn’t you wash the pot?”

  “Too much trouble, and besides, I’ve got a cold. You ain’t supposed to warsh pots when you’ve got a cold. Spreads germs.” He started toward the back door. “So that settles it. When we get up from our naps, we’ll have vienna sausage and crackers.”

  “And ketchup?”

  “Okay, if you don’t make a mess. I don’t want your ma coming home to a dirty house. She already thinks I’m about half savage, and I don’t need any more evidence against me. Come on.”

  Slim went into the house, wiping sweat from his forehead. Alfred waved good-bye to us dogs and said, “Y’all wait wight there. I’ll be back after my dumb old nap.”

  He disappeared into the house, leaving Drover and me alone. I wasn’t real excited at the prospect of spending any more time alone with Drover. I mean, he’s a fairly nice little mutt in some ways, but also fairly boring.

  As instructed, we sat down beside the yard gate. The minutes crawled by and after while, we found ourselves staring into each other’s eyes.

  “Drover, why are you staring at me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I ran out of things to do, I guess.”

  “Well, stare at something else. I don’t enjoy being stared at.”

  “You stared at me first.”

  “I did not. I was merely looking. There’s a big difference between staring and looking.”

  “I’ll be derned. What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is . . . big. Huge.”

  “Yeah, but what is it?”

  “If you don’t know by now, Drover, I’m not going to waste my time telling you.”

  Silence. Then, “What should I stare at?”

  “Anything but me. Just pick something out of the hat.”

  “I don’t have a hat.”

  “I know you don’t have a hat. You just barely have a head.”

  “I thought I had a pretty nice head. Now you’re making fun of it.”

  “I’m not making fun of your head. The point is that your head is fairly empty.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  I heaved a sigh. “Every time I look into your eyes, Drover, I see a vast emptiness.”

  “No fooling?”

  “Honest. You should try to look yourself in the eyes sometime.”

  “Gee, I never thought of that.” You know what he did then? He crossed his eyes! And even more amazing, he seemed excited about it. “Gosh, this is fun. I never would have thought of doing this. Thanks, Hank.”

  I watched the little mutt for five whole minutes, cross-eyed and grinning. At last I could stand it no longer. “All right, that’s enough. You’re em­bar­rassing me. If someone came along and saw us here, they’d know for sure that you’re a goofball. And they might even think we were friends.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind.”

  “I know you don’t mind, but I do. I have my reputation to think about.” He uncrossed his eyes and laid down. So did I. “The trouble with you, Drover, is that you take a good idea and run it into the ground.”

  “I thought the trouble with me was that my tail was too short.”

  “You have many troubles.”

  “Yeah, and this old leg of mine . . .”

  “Drover, please hush and go to sleep. We’ll discuss your troubles some other time. Good night.”

  “It’s still daylight. And you know what else? The wind just shifted to the north. And it feels kind of chilly. And clouds are moving in.”

  “Drover, for the last tork, snerk the honking watermelons and biffle the piffle . . . zzzzzzzz.”

  I must have dozed off. When I awoke, something strange had happened.

  Chapter Four: Stormy Weather

  You’re probably wonder
ing what the strangeness was that happened whilst I was . . . whilst I was resting my eyes and restoring my precious bodily fluids. Well, several things.

  First off, the weather changed grammatically. I mean, in that short span of half an hour or so, the day changed from bright fall to gloomy winter. Heavy gray clouds covered the sun and a sharp wind was slicing in from the north. Fellers, we had just been hit by an old-fashioned norther, and the temperature was falling like a gutted sparrow from the uppermost branches of the tree of . . .

  The temperature was falling like a rock, shall we say, and the wind was pushing puffs of dust and tumbleweeds ahead of it, moaning through the trees, and causing leaves to swirl and clatter across the ground.

  I sat straight up and turned to . . . whoever that was . . . okay, it was Drover. Yes, of course, it was Drover, and I turned straight up and sat . . . I sat straight up and turned to Drover and said, “Who’s going on here and what’s the porkchop of this?”

  I noticed that he was shivering—a pretty important clue. “I don’t know, but I’m cold.”

  “Why wasn’t I called? Nobody cleared this with . . .” I shook several vapors out of my head. “Okay, we’ve got a neither in progress, Nover.”

  “My name’s Drover.”

  “Ah ha! Just as I subjected. They thought they could sneak a norther onto my ranch, they thought I wouldn’t . . .” I blinked my eyes several times. “Where are we?”

  “Well, let’s see.” He rolled his eyes around. “Somewhere in Texas, I think.”

  “Yes, of course. How long have we been gone and how did we get here? I need facts, Drover, facts and details, for you see . . . wait a minute. We took a little nap, didn’t we?”

  “Well, you did. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Objection! The witness is dealing in hear-say and gossip. The fact in this case is that you can’t prove that I was actually asleep, isn’t that correct?”

  “Well . . . if you weren’t asleep, how come you just woke up?”

  I cut my eyes from side to side. Was this some kind of trick question? Just for a second it caught me off guard, but it didn’t matter because at that very moment, the case went plunging into a new direction. I heard a sound behind me. I whirled around and saw . . .