The Case of the Bone-Stalking Monster (4 page)

Chapter Six: I Break the Tragic News to Drover

H
ave you noticed that Slim always seems to be leaning on something? It's true. He never stands up straight on his own two legs. He leans.

This could be caused by simple laziness. I've suspected for a long time that Slim is, at heart and down deep where it really counts, a lazy man.

Or perhaps his body is crooked, and it just naturally falls into a slouching state whenever he is at rest—which is fairly often, if you ask me. If they ever gave me full authority to run this ranch, I would . . . but never mind that.

He was draped over the corner post and he was grinning at me. “Hey pooch, has anybody ever told you that you've got mud on your nose?”

I . . . there wasn't a simple answer to that question. Of course I knew that mud existed on the end of my nose, but technically speaking, nobody had ever pointed it out before.

But I was aware of it, and I was also aware of why it was there.

“Have you been playing backhoe with your nose?”

No, I certainly had not . . . okay, maybe I had done some backhoe-type work with my nose, but I hadn't been PLAYING. It was very serious business. Heads of Ranch Security don't PLAY.

We WORK, which was a concept he wouldn't understand.

“You know, Hank, only your best friends would tell you this, but you look pretty silly, standing there with a mudball on the end of your nose.”

I held my head at a proud angle and glared daggers at him. Not only was I not ashamed to have mud on my nose, I was proud of it. So there.

Small minds will always find something to ridiculate. Ridicule, I guess it should be, something to ridicule.

When you do serious backhoe work with your nose, it becomes muddy, and that was nothing to ridiculate.

He chuckled to himself and started walking toward the machine shed. “Well, if I was you, pup, I believe I'd get out of that garden. Sally May's liable to take a dim view of you plantin' bones in the midst of her tomater plants.”

I had to admit that he had . . . gee, was it so obvious that I had . . . that a strong wind or something had blown down a plant or two? Maybe so, and yes, leaving the garden area before certain parties arrived seemed a pretty good idea, even though the idea had come from one of the smaller minds on the ranch.

You probably think that I left the garden right then. Not true. First, I scanned the entire garden area and committed to memory the locations of all three of my precious bones.

See, a lot of your ordinary ranch mutts will go to the trouble of burying a bone and then leave. Only later will they realize that they have no idea where they left it. That falls into the category of Dumb Behavior.

If you're going to bury a bone, doesn't it make sense to remember where you left it? Of course it does. That's what I did, and then I made a rapid exit, so to speak, from the scene of the, uh, accident.

I felt pretty bad about the damage, but history has proven over and over that if you're going to make an omelet, you have to break a few tomatoes.

On the other hand, I've heard Sally May and other leading experts on gardening say that tomato plants actually do better after they have been “flailed,” I believe they call it.

Flailed or frailed or flogged. Whipped. Beaten. Thrashed with a stick. No kidding. Some people whack on their tomato plants with a stick, so in a sense, you might say that I had actually helped Sally May with some of her, uh, gardening work.

Hey, I was glad to do it. Sally May was a very busy wife and mother, and she had no business thrashing tomato plants in the hot glare of the sun's hot glare.

I made my way back to the gas tanks. Drover was just as I had left him, conked out—snoring, wheezing, twitching, grunting, and doing all the other things he does in his sleep.

I sat down and watched him for a few minutes. Did I make such noises in my sleep? I didn't think so. I also took this opportunity to figure out how I would break the sad news to him. At last I came up with a plan, which began with a gentle wake-up call.

“Wake up, half-stepper, arise and sing!”

Well, you won't believe this. I hardly believed it myself, and I was there and saw the whole thing. Before my very eyes, the little mutt arose and sang. Here's how it went, and he sang it more than once, if you can believe that.

The Wake-up Song

Murgle skiffer porkchop on a summer day.

Skittle rickie snicklefritz eat a bale of hay.

Elephants.

Sugar ants.

Steak fat snork.

Porkchop mork.

I listened to the entire mess. As far as I knew, Drover had done very little singing in his lifetime, and it certainly showed. It was pretty bad.

I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, but unless I'm badly mistaken, you are not only sleeping in the middle of the day, but you're also singing on the ranch's time.”

His eyes came into focus and that silly grin of his slithered across his mouth. “Oh hi, Hank. You've got a mudball on the end of your nose.”

“Oh yes, I . . . uh . . .” I turned away and swiped my nose with a paw. “Thanks. I can't imagine how it got there.”

“Maybe you were digging.”

“Don't be absurd, Drover, and don't try to change the subject. The point is that you were singing on ranch time.”

“Me? I was singing?”

“That's correct, on the ranch's time and during business hours.”

“I'll be derned. I can't even sing.”

“I noticed. Now brace yourself, Drover. I have some terrible news.”

“I don't think I can stand it. I just woke up and you know how I am in the morning.”

“It's not morning, son. The day's half over.”

“No, it's still morning. See where the sun is?”

I beamed him a glare. “Do you want to argue the time of day or hear some terrible news?”

“I think I'd rather argue. I hate terrible news. It always seems so terrible.”

“Exactly, and there's a reason for that. Terrible news seems terrible because it is. Now sit down and be quiet and brace yourself. I have to tell you something.”

He sat down and braced himself. “How terrible is it?”

“Be quiet and you might find out.”

“Okay.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “What if I can't stand it?”

“That's why I told you to sit down. When you can't stand something, you should sit.”

“Oh. That makes sense. I guess I'm ready.”

“Very well, here we go. Drover, it's my unpleasant duty to inform you . . .”

“That's enough, I can't take anymore!”

“I haven't told you anything yet, you little weenie.”

“Yeah, but it's already so bad that my leg's starting to hurt. Maybe you could start with the good news first.”

“All right, we'll try it your way. The good news, Drover, is that your bones have disappeared.”

His eyes popped open. His jaw fell several inches. “That's not good news, that's terrible news!”

“I'm sorry, son. I had to trick you.”

“Yeah, but you tricked me.”

“That's what I just said, Drover, but I tricked you for your own good. Somebody had to trick you into facing reality as it really is.”

“I want to go back to bed. I want my bones. Oh, my leg!”

I gave him a pat on the shoulder. “I know this is hard on you, Drover, but there's more.” I looked into his eyes and lowered my voice to a whisper. “For you see, Drover, your bones were stolen by . . . the Bone Monster.”

His eyes grew as wide as saucers. “You mean . . . he was here?”

“That's correct.”

“The Bone Monster was HERE?”

“Exactly.”

“While I was asleep?”

“I've run out of ways of saying yes, Drover, but yes, all those things you have said are true and correct.”

“Oh my gosh!” He sat down and began scratching his left ear with his left hind leg. (I notice all these tiny details.) “Tell me what happened.”

“All right, let's see here. I was giving you an important lecture on . . . something. I don't recall the subject matter at the moment.”

“Yeah, it was pretty boring and I fell asleep.”

I beamed him a hot glare. “Do you want to tell this story or shall I?”

“No, you better do it, 'cause I don't know what happened.”

“Fine. I'll tell the story and you concentrate on being quiet. You fell asleep. I left to do a quick sweep of the corrals and feed barn. On my return, I was astonished to see this . . . this creature standing in your bedroom.”

“Oh my gosh, what did he look like?”

“Just as you described him, Drover: a huge, hairy, shaggy, gorilla-type creature.”

“With red eyes that blinked on and off?”

“Exactly.”

“And long fangs?”

“Same guy.”

His teeth had begun to chatter. “Oh my gosh, Hank, it must have been the Bone Monster!”

Pretty scary, huh? You probably think there wasn't a Bone Monster, that I was just making it up. That's what I thought too, but you'll soon find out . . .

You'll see.

Chapter Seven: Dogpound Ralph Appears on the Scenery

I
had Drover's full attention. “What did he do?”

“Well, let me think. Oh yes, he looked down at you and licked his chops, almost as though . . . almost as though he were thinking of . . . eating you, Drover.”

“Oh my gosh, it's a good thing I didn't wake up. I'd have died, Hank, just died! What did he do then?”

“Well, he didn't eat you.”

“Oh good!”

“Instead, he saw the three bones between your paws. He glanced over both shoulders, snatched them up with a big hairy hand, and lumbered off to the northwest.”

By this time, Drover had crawled underneath his gunnysack bed. Nothing showed but his stub tail. “Where do you reckon he went, and do you think he'll come back?”

“I'm guessing that he went to Spook Canyon, Drover. That's about the spookiest place on the ranch. And as to whether he'll be back . . . we just don't know the answer to that one.”

I could see the gunnysack shaking. “I'll never be able to sleep again, not with him running around.”

“I guess the next question is, do you want to send a scout patrol into Spook Canyon and try to recover your bones?”

He poked his nose out the west side of the gunnysack. I could just barely see one of his eyes. “Who'd be in the scout patrol?”

“The entire massed forces of the Security Divi­sion, Drover. Or to put it another way . . . you.”

His nose and eye vanished. “You know, Hank, the way this old leg's been acting up, I probably better stay close to the gas tanks.”

“Mmmm yes, that's what I thought.”

“And Bone Monsters have to eat too, just like the rest of us, and maybe if he has steak bones to eat, he won't want to be trying to eat us.”

I caught myself smiling. “Good point, Drover, I hadn't thought of that. So what you're saying is that you're willing to drop the whole thing and not file charges in the case?”

“Oh yeah, you bet. I was never so happy to lose three bones.”

Bingo! Heh, heh. My net worth had just zoomed into the statusphere. I was now the sole owner of three of the best bones in Texas. And Drover was happy about it. What a deal.

“Well, whatever you think, Drover. It's your life and they were your bones. And by the way, you can come out now. The Bone Monster left thirty minutes ago.”

His nose appeared. “Oh, I think I'll stay in here for a while longer, just in case. My leg needs a rest anyway.”

“Fine, but I'll expect you to be ready for Night Patrol. We'll move out at 1800 hours sharp.”

“Night Patrol! What about the Bone Monster?”

“Sure, invite him to come along. The more the merrier.”

“Oh my leg!”

I left him quivering under his gunnysack and went on about my business. I felt great. It was a beautiful spring morning and I had three wonderful bones in the bank. What more could a dog ask of this old life?

I headed up the hill, past the yard gate, past the machine shed, through the shelter belt, and onward and northward to the county road. It had occurred to me, don't you see, that I hadn't worked Traffic in several days, and that was too long.

I hate to let Traffic slide, but sometimes it can't be helped. I get so busy with investigations and monster reports and so forth that I can't do a thorough job with Traffic. And I always regret it.

I mean, when you skip a few days of barking cars on the county road, those guys get to thinking it's THEIR road and they'll start driving like mechanics . . . maniacs, I guess it is . . . they start driving like maniacs, hogging the road, expending the seed limit, and disregarding all our rules and regulations.

Well, you know where I stand on those issues. I don't allow 'em, and the sooner those guys figure it out, the happier we'll all be.

Imagine my surprise when I topped that little hill north of the house and saw two unidentified pickups parked on the side of the road . . . MY road, that is. They appeared to be just sitting there, using my road as a parking lot, and I guess you know that we don't allow such things, especially when the guilty parties don't have permission.

The farther I went, the madder I got. Those guys would pay dearly for this. Even though I had just made a killing in the bone market and was now a fabulously wealthy dog, I was in no mood to be generous. By George, if they wanted a free parking space, they could go somewhere else.

As I drew closer, I began sifting clues and memorizing tiny details. It was two pickups, all right, one red and one white. The red one was parked behind the white one, and the driver of the red one had gotten out and was standing beside the white one.

They appeared to be talking—the drivers, not the pickups. The drivers appeared to be talking. I could hear the low murmur of their voices. That was a pretty important clue right there. They were
murmuring
.

Why would two drivers of two pickups be murmuring to each other on the side of a county road on a pretty spring day? It struck me as pretty fishy, and I had every intention of getting to the bottom of the barrel.

Fifty yards out, I fired off a warning bark. Sometimes that will send them fleeing in terror. I mean, once they realize that they've been caught in the act by the Head of Ranch Security, a lot of these loafers and deadbeats will quit the country, never to be seen again.

That's not what they did. Instead, they . . . well, I couldn't see they did much of anything, actually, which provided me with another important clue: Those guys had no idea who or whom they were fixing to go up against. And maybe they weren't real smart on top of that.

By this time, I had abandoned all hope of settling this in an easy or peaceful manner. Obviously, I would have to kick tails and take names and maybe even tear a few doors off of a few pickups.

I hated to be so drastic about it, but some guys just don't take hints.

I rumbled up to the first pickup, which happened to be the red one in the rear. The rear of the pickup was red but so was the front. It was red all over, in other words, but it . . . phooey.

I rumbled up to the second pickup in line. I chose it at random, for no particular reason. As far as I was concerned, one was just as guilty as the other.

Without wasting a single second of my time, I marched straight to the right rear wheel and proceeded to mark it with Secret Encoding Fluid. Once we have SEFed a tire, we feed the secret coding information into Data Control. For days and weeks thereafter, we can call up a SEF Report and trace the location of every tire of every vehicle we have SEFed.

Pretty snazzy, huh? Maybe you thought this was a sharecropper outfit, staffed by a couple of dim­­wit dogs. Ha! Far from it. Over the years, we have upgraded our equipment and brought in the very latest up-to-date high-tech instruments that help us in our never-ending battle against . . .

Who or whomever it is that we're against. The villains of this world. The slackers and the trespassers, cattle rustlers and roadhogs, and the list goes on and on.

On most of your ordinary ranches, your ordinary ranch dogs merely mark the tires. Not us, fellers. We encode them with Secret Encoding Fluid and . . .

Suddenly and all at once, I had a feeling—a strange creepy feeling—that I was being watched.

I rolled my eyes upward. Sure enough, there was the face of a dog, staring down at me. While continuing to SEF the tire, I began memorizing every detail of the alleged face.

How many dogs can do both those jobs at once? Very few. It requires tremendous powers of concentration, because if you happen to get the two tasks mixed up . . . well, it could lead to water on the brain.

I lifted my eyes and here's what I saw: two big sad eyes, one mouth, one nose, two long floppy ears. If I had been forced to give a quick analysis of the face, I would have guessed that it belonged to some kind of hound dog, either a basset or a beagle.

I finished up the SEF procedure, scratched up some gravel with my front paws (that gravel scratch­ing seems to help “set” or “fix” the Encod­ing Fluid), and turned my full attention to the tres­passer in the pickup.

I broke the long icy silence. “You seem to be staring at me, fella. Is there some reason for that?”

“Well, I was just a-wondering what you were doing down there, I guess, is why I was staring. Are you wettin' down the tires?”

“It may appear that's what I'm doing, but in fact of actuality, it's quite a bit more complicated than that.”

“Oh. Well, I probably wouldn't understand it then. I'm kind of slow.”

“Hmmm, yes.” I had already picked up that clue, that he was “slow,” to use his word, and suddenly I had the feeling that . . . “Say, pal, haven't we met before?”

“Yup, sure have. Name's Ralph. They call me Dogpound Ralph 'cause I stay at the dog pound. You visited me twice at the pound.”

I began pacing. “Yes, of course. It's all coming back to me now. Don't you see what this means? You're Dogpound Ralph!”

“Well . . . that's what I thought.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I knew I'd seen you before: your face, the mournful eyes, the drooping jowls. They all add up to YOU, Ralph, and they will never add up to anyone else.”

“Good. I reckon.”

“You might recall, Ralph, that I'm the guy who broke you out of prison and saved you from a miserable existence as a jailbird.”

“Yup, either that or I broke you out, 'cause you had just eat a bar of soap.”

“No, you're wrong, Ralph. I had been poisoned by my enemies. They had plotted to poison me with a deadly hydrophobia virus.”

“It was soap, ya dope. Your sister fed you soap 'cause you wouldn't take a hint and go home.”

Would I just stand there and take this kind of insult from a jailbird dog who was trespassing on my ranch?

You'll soon find out.