The Almost Last Roundup

by John R. Erickson

  The Head of Ranch Security doesn’t sleep in the middle of the day. Let’s just say that upon hearing the awful scream, I leaped out of my office chair and took charge of the situation. “Parsley bubbles on the lumber bunny cobblers! Outrageous freckles see no evil and we shall beat to quarters!”

  With jerky movements of my head, I glanced around and saw…what was that thing? It was mostly white. On one end, it seemed to have a head and on the other end, a stub of a tail. The creature stood on wobbly legs and stared at me with eyes that resembled…I don’t know, two bowls of dishwater.

  I beamed a merciless glare at the stranger and yelled, “Halt! Stop in the name of the lawn! Who goes there?”

  A mysterious voice said, “Poppy hop along with pollywog jelly.”

  “That’s your name? Let’s see some ID, and keep all five feet on the ground.”

  “I thought I heard someone scream.”

  “Roger that. I heard it too, and we’ve got units checking it out, even as we squeak. What’s your name? We need a name to go with the face.”

  “Which face?”

  “The one you’re wearing.”

  “Oh, that one.” He blinked his eyes and gazed around. “Well, I guess I’m Drover. I wasn’t sure at first, but I think I am.”

  “I’ve heard that name before.”

  “Yeah, I live here.”

  “Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere. Your name must already be in our system, so form a line and pick up your uniform.” I narrowed my eyes and looked closer at him. “Did you say your name is Drover?”

  He grinned and nodded. “Yeah. Hi.”

  “Hello. We used to have a Drover on the staff and he drove me nuts. What are you, his cousin or something?”

  “No, it was me all along. Sometimes they call me Rover, but it’s Drover with a D.”

  “Drover with a D? Are you suggesting that I can’t smell your name? And speaking of smell…” I moved closer and checked him out with Sniffatory Scanners. “I’m picking up a strange odor. Explain.”

  “Well, I rolled on a fresh cow pie.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  He grinned and shrugged. “I don’t know, it seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “It was the wrong thing to do. You stink. You said Drover, right?”

  “Yeah, with a D.”

  “Please stop telling me how to spell your name. The point is that you’re Drover with a D. We’ve known each other for a long time, which makes me wonder…” I glanced around in a full circle. “Where are we?”

  “In our bedroom, under the gas tanks.”

  “Ah. That explains the deja voodoo, the feeling that I’ve been here before.”

  “Yeah, about a million times. We were asleep and something woke us up.”

  “I wasn’t asleep. Who can sleep on this ranch? Even so…what do you suppose woke us up?”

  His eyes grew large. “It was some kind of scream.”

  That word, “scream,” seemed to activate all my professional instincts, and I knew we had a serious problem on the ranch. Just how serious, I didn’t know. You don’t either, so you’d better keep reading.

  Chapter Three: The Charlies Capture Sally May

  Okay, we had a problem. I began pacing, as I often do when I’m following a trail of clues. “It’s coming back to me now. I heard a horrible scream. You heard it too?”

  “Yeah, it was awful.”

  “It was a blurd-cuddling scream, right?”

  “Oh yeah, it blurded my girdle.”

  “Did it come from a man, woman, or child?”

  “I think so.”

  I stopped pacing and gave him a flaming glare. “Which one?”

  “Well, I think it was a woman in distress.”

  “That’s it! Sally May is in trouble and if we don’t get there before it’s too late, it’ll be too late. Quick, Rover, it’s time to launch all dogs!”

  “It’s Drover with a D.”

  The little mutt had picked up the habit of repeating, “It’s Drover with a D.” Why? Who knows? Maybe some of his brain cells had begun to rot from lack of use. He needed months of therapy, but I didn’t have months to spare.

  I leaped into the cockpit, dropped the canopy, and pushed the throttle lever all the way to Full Flames.

  The roar of rocket engines filled my ears and I…I eased off on the throttle lever and cranked open the canopy. “Where are we going?”

  Drover shrugged. “I don’t know. Where’d the scream come from?”

  “Well, yes, duh. That’s the question. Give me coordinates.”

  “Which ones?”

  “I don’t care, but hurry up!”

  “Well, let’s see. Two-by-four, two-by-six, hole-in-one, and two eggs over-easy.”

  “Roger that. Thanks.” I entered those numbers into the computer and was about to blast off, when I heard the scream again. “Wait. It’s coming from the machine shed.”

  “Yeah, but Sally May never goes to the machine shed.”

  I leaped out of the cockpit. “Do you want to save her life or argue about where she goes? Lock and load, son, we’re going up the hill!”

  Obviously the Charlies had captured the machine shed and somehow Sally May had walked into a trap. Now they were holding her hostage.

  Our troops left the barracks and went racing up the hill, lugging full packs and extra ammo. The Charlies saw us coming and opened up with everything they had, but we didn’t slow down or even blink an eye.

  We had to take that hill and save Sally May.

  Boy, you should have been there to see us. You talk about a couple of brave ranch dogs! Bullets zipped past our heads, then came mortar fire, tanks, RPGs, flame throwers, the whole nine yards of heavy combat.

  Halfway up the hill, I sent Company B to cover the left flank, while I went plunging straight ahead. In serious combat situations, we put the slackers on the flanks. The Head of Ranch Security goes straight up the middle, with guns blazing.

  And, fellers, my guns were blazing: bark after bark, roar upon roar, blast after blast of deep manly barking. I gave ‘em everything I had: spray barking, mortar barks, canon barks, even a few deadly sniper barks.

  Dodging enemy fire, I crested the top of the hill. There, I laid down another withering barrage of barking and yelled, “Security Division, Special Crimes Unit! Drop your weapons! Everyone on the ground! Move!”

  Through the clouds of smoke and dust, I saw…hmm. I had expected to see dozens of Charlie commandos wearing vegetable-colored uniforms, and Sally May tied to a tree, only that wasn’t the scene that presented itself before my very eyes. Instead, I saw…

  Tell you what, we’re going to cancel the Red Alert. Sit down and take a few deep breaths. See, we’d gotten some…some bogus information about this deal. What I saw in front of the machine shed was two men, and they weren’t Charlie commandoes. I recognized them at once: High Loper, the owner of the ranch, and Slim Chance, the hired hand.

  Loper seemed to be replacing a windshield wiper blade on his pickup, while Slim was seated on a five gallon bucket beside the stock trailer, and holding an air wrench that looked exactly like a fully automatic pistol, only it had a rubber air hose stuck in the bottom.

  Perhaps he was working on the stock trailer. Yes, that’s what he was doing, pulling the tires off the right side of the trailer.

  Those screams we’d heard? The air wrench. It made a horrible screeching sound, like a woman in distress.

  Look, when you’re Head of Ranch Security, you don’t get a week or a month to respond to a crisis. Those crises come at us like bullets from all directions, and we make our best decision, based on the information at hand. It had been my bad luck that the initial Invasion Report had been filed by my assistant, Drover with a D.

  But never mind. Slim Chance was pulling the tires
off the stock trailer. He sat on an overturned five-gallon bucket and when I arrived on the scenery, he turned and gave me a scowl. “Quit barking. You’re giving me a headache.”

  Quit barking? Headache? Oh brother.

  You know what I did? I barked at him! Yes sir, I gave him a couple of big ones, just to let him know that, by George, when we have to send troops up the hill on a hot day, we’re going to bark at something.

  He rolled his eyes and shook his head, then spoke in a kinder tone of voice. “Hank, come here.”

  Okay, he was ready to make peace. Was I dog enough to accept his apology? It was a tough call, but I decided…sure. I mean, a huge part of my job is figuring out how to get along with these people. When they mess up, we have to smooth things over and move on with our lives.

  I flipped a couple of switches to disable the Firing Systems, and trotted over to him. He rubbed me on the ears and looked into my eyes. “Hank, have you ever had your tail unscrewed?”

  Huh? Tail unscrewed?

  He showed me the air wrench. “If you keep barking, I’ll be forced to unscrew your tail. And if that don’t work, I’ll unscrew your nose.”

  He pulled the trigger and the wrench squealed.

  I backed away. What kind of apology was THAT? All at once, I was overwhelmed by the realization that this cad didn’t deserve a loyal dog. I whirled around, lifted my head to a proud angle, and marched away.

  I hadn’t gone far when I ran into Company B. He was out of breath. “Gosh, what happened? Where’s Sally May?”

  “Sally May isn’t here. She was never here.”

  He glanced around. “Then…who screamed?” Just then, Slim goosed the air wrench and it let out a screech. Drover grinned. “Oh, I get it now. It was the air wrench, right? Hee hee. Boy, he sure fooled us.”

  I glared into the emptiness of his eyes. “He fooled you. As a result, we launched an invasion force and put our troops in harm’s way for nothing.”

  “Yeah, but there wasn’t any harm. Nobody got hurt.”

  “What about the morale of this unit? Had you thought of that?”

  “Well…”

  “Of course you hadn’t, so think about it. How can we continue to call ourselves the Elite Troops of the Security Division when we get involved in pointless, bonehead crusades?”

  “Well…”

  “It makes us look like morons, Drover. Is that what you want to be when you grow up, a little moron?”

  “Can I scratch?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got a flea on my left ear, and I sure need to scratch.”

  I could feel my eyes bulging out of their sprockets. “You will NOT scratch your left ear in the middle of my lecture.”

  “How about the right one?”

  “No. Answer my question.”

  “I forgot. What was it?”

  A great silence filled the silence. “I don’t remember it either. You see what you’ve done to me?”

  “Sorry.”

  I rummaged through the laundry basket of my memory. “It must have been important.”

  “I’ll bet it was.”

  “But if it was so important, why can’t we remember it? I mean, we’re not just a couple of goofballs.”

  “Boy, that’s right. Can I scratch now?”

  “No, not until we remember the question that was before this court.”

  The silence grew deeper and heavier, then Drover said, “Maybe we could make up a new question.”

  “Why would we want to do that?”

  “So I can scratch. This itch is killing me.”

  “Well, I guess we could. Sure. I mean, we can’t spend the rest of our lives, just sitting here. Can you think of any good questions?”

  “Well, let me see.” He wadded up his face and squinted one eye. “Okay, here’s one. If water runs downhill, how come it can’t walk?”

  “Because it has no legs.”

  “Then how can it run?”

  “Drover, don’t get started on this.”

  “A table has four legs, and it can’t walk either.”

  “Tables have wooden legs.”

  “So do pirates, and they walk just fine.”

  I paced away from him and took several deep breaths of air. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed. “Drover, some parts of this conversation don’t make any sense. I’m exhausted and I don’t even know why.”

  “I’ll be derned. Maybe we ought to scratch. It’s easy and we’re good at it.”

  I ran this information through Data Control. “You know, that’s an interesting idea. It’s good for a dog to do the things he’s good at.”

  “Yeah, and good + good = gooder.”

  “Great point.” I whopped him on the back. “Let’s get after it. The last one to start scratching is a rotten egg.”

  And with that, we both sat down on our respective hinies and began hacking away at our ears. Within seconds, the air was filled with loose dog hairs, and a warm pleasant feeling swept over me. I never figured out how we’d gotten on the subject of pirates, but the important thing is that Drover and I had a great session of scratching.

  Life was good again. I felt like a new dog, ready to go back to work, solving cases and protecting the ranch.

  Does any of that make sense? Maybe not, but when you live with Drover twenty-four hours a day, you have to lower your expectations.

  Chapter Four: Alfred and I Help Slim

  I left Drover (he continued scratching) and drifted back to the area where the men were working on their little projects. Loper was still battling the wiper blade and Slim was watching. “Loper, you probably don’t want to hear this.”

  “Then don’t say it.”

  “But I’ll say it anyway. It looks ignorant when a man changes out his wiper blades in the middle of a drought.”

  “That’s the best time to do it, before it starts raining.”

  “By the time it rains, the rubber on the new blades will be rotten, and you’ll have to do it all over again.”

  “If it rains, I won’t care. I’d love to change wiper blades in the rain.”

  “So would I, but it’s looking like it ain’t ever going to rain again.”

  “It’ll rain, it always has, and every day we’re getting closer to it.” Loper got the wiper blade snapped into place and walked over to Slim. “Are you going to pack those wheel bearings or yap all day?”

  “I’m getting it done, just needed a little break. It’s hot. Lookie yonder.” He pointed toward the big Dr. Pepper thermometer on the front of the machine shed. It showed 95 degrees. “And the radio says it’s supposed to go to 107 tomorrow.”

  “So the heat is bothering you?”

  “Well, I’m not one to complain, but yes, it’s kind of hot out here.”

  Loper smiled. “I can fix that.”

  He strolled into the barn, came out with a flat-blade screwdriver, and removed the two screws that were holding the thermometer to the side of the barn. He pitched it onto the seat of his pickup and gave Slim a fanged smile. “There, that ought to help. If you’ll quit looking at the thermometer, you won’t have any reason to feel sorry for yourself.”

  “Loper, that’s childish.”

  “Look, buddy, our daddies hauled hay and built fence in this kind of heat. You know how they did it? They didn’t listen to the weather report or look at the thermometer. They went to work. Try it.”

  Slim shook his head and grinned. “Loper, you’re a piece of work. By the way, happy birthday. What are you, ninety-five?”

  “Thanks. You can leave my gifts at the house. I’m going to look at the pastures up north. If they look as bad as I think, we might have to start selling cows, and we’ll need that stock trailer to haul horses. If you can work it into your schedule to grease the wheel bearings, that would be nice.”

>   Loper climbed into his pickup and drove off. Slim grumbled under his breath and went back to work. I sat down in the shade and did some Anti-Flea work on my left ear. Moments later, who or whom do you suppose arrived on the scene? Little Alfred.

  He had wandered up to the machine shed to see what was causing all the noise (the air wrench). By that time, Slim had pulled both tires off the right side of the stock trailer, had removed the hubs and pulled the bearings off the axles, and now he was “packing the bearings.”

  Do you know what that means? Neither did I, but I soon found out. He was packing the bearings with grease, thick gooey stuff that came in a big can. Wheel bearings last longer when they’ve got grease, don’t you see. If you don’t give ‘em grease, they get hot and…I don’t know, burn up or fall off or something like that.

  Trailer bearings have to be packed with grease twice a year, is the point, and Slim had drawn the job. There he sat on a five-gallon bucket, pushing grease into the rollers of the wheel bearing. Sweat dripped off the end of his nose and he had smudges of grease on his shirt, both cheeks, and the tip of his chin.

  Alfred said, “Hi Swim, whatcha doing?”

  “I’m playing in the grease and making a mess. That’s what the boss told me to do.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  Slim’s eyes came up, and he looked…well, crabby. “I’ve got tools and parts scattered over half an acre. Don’t mess with my stuff.”

  Alfred stood around for a while, then he went to work. While Slim was busy, he pulled several wrenches from the tool box and used them to dig a hole in the ground. Then he caught a grasshopper and pushed him into the can of grease, and walked off with a three-quarter-inch socket.

  After a while, we heard Slim’s voice. “Where’s that box-end wrench?” He tore through the tool box, rattling tools. “I swear, sharing a set of tools with Loper is like working with a chimpanzee. In his whole life, the man has never put a tool back where it belongs.”