The Case of the Hooking Bull (6 page)

Chapter Ten: A Buzzard Falls Out of the Sky

W
as this my reward for saving Slim from the bull? Was this the kind of thanks they gave a dog for putting his life on the line and fighting for his ranch?

Use him up and then leave him for coyote bait?

Yes, I couldn't help feeling a little bitter about it. I mean, I had only one life and one body and it seemed to me they were being a little careless with it.

But on the other hand, what else could they do? I had tried to walk and couldn't. Slim was hurt and couldn't lift me into the pickup. Alfred had tried. And Drover . . .

“Oh Hank, we're going to leave you out here all alone, and boy, you talk about heavy guilt! This just might do me in.”

“Drover, I've got a suggestion.”

“Anything, Hank, anything at all. You just tell me what I can do.”

“All right. Why don't you stay out here and keep me company?”

There for a second, I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head. “Stay . . . keep you . . .” He started backing away. “You know, Hank, I'd love to do that, I really would, but with this leg the way it is, I sure think I'd better . . . and I wouldn't feel right about leaving headquarters without a dog to take care of things, and maybe I'd better . . . ”

He turned and limped back to the pickup. “Thanks a bunch, Drover, and the next time you need my help, I hope you'll call a bull!”

“Thanks, Hank. I know everything'll be all right. Oh, this guilt is terrible!”

He hopped into the back of the pickup and that was the last I saw of the little stooge.

I looked around and there was Little Alfred, standing over me. He bent down and petted me on the head.

“We have to weeve you, Hankie, but I'll come back. I pwomise, I'll come back.”

He bit his lip and ran to the pickup.

Slim put the gearshift in neutral and started the motor. Then he told Alfred to step on the clutch pedal and he shifted into first gear—Grandma Low, as he called it. Alfred let out the clutch and the pickup lurched forward.

With Alfred standing up in the seat and gripping the wheel in both hands, they made a circle in the pasture and began the long, slow trip back to the house, two miles to the south. The boy waved one last good-bye, and I heard Drover say, “Oh, the guilt! Oh, my leg!”

And then they were gone.

The silence moved over me like a fog. My friends had left, the horse had left, even the cattle had left. I had never known such a lonesome feeling in all my career. About the only thing I could cling to was Little Alfred's promise that he would come back to get me.

But that wasn't much to cling to. I knew he couldn't drive in those pastures without Slim to help him.

I checked the location of the sun. Five o'clock, was my best guess, which meant that I had four hours of daylight left before darkness fell and the local cannibals began stirring around.

My whole body ached and that hot summer sun was burning me up. I put cannibals out of my mind and fell into a sleep—and dreamed about cannibals, dozens of them, howling and circling in the darkness and closing in on me.

I awoke and saw that the sun had slipped almost to the horizon. I had slept for several hours. I glanced off to the south, hoping to see a plume of dust in the air that would tell me that help was on the way.

There was no plume of dust. Help was not on the way.

My mouth was burning up with thirst, and I began to wonder if I could drag myself over to the stock tank and get a drink. I did a quick scan of my bodily parts and discovered, to my surprise, that all four legs appeared to be attached, and even unbroken.

I'm sure the Hooking Bull would have been disappointed to find out that after all his attempts to shred me up like so much paper, he hadn't even busted a leg.

Well, if I still had four unbroken legs, maybe I could stand on them. I lifted my hind end, lifted my front end, and found myself standing on all four legs. I took a step.

Now, those legs were a tad wobbly and I fell down a couple of times, and yes, the old body was beat up and sore, but I finally managed to limp and weave my way to the stock tank.

The next challenge came when I tried to stand on my hind legs, lean over the edge of the tank, and lap up some of that nice, sweet, cool windmill water. It was tough, let me tell you, but once I got the smell of that water, I didn't quit until I had lapped up a bellyful.

And once I had gone that far, I began to wonder if maybe I could pull myself over the edge of the tank and take a little dip. I hopped and I pulled and I tugged, and every one of those bruised muscles talked to me, but by George I made it up to the edge and let myself tumble over into the water

Oh, that was the most wonderful feeling! I was surrounded by cool friendly water, and I found swimming quite a bit easier on my injured parts than walking. It was very nice, paddling around in that nice cool water.

Only trouble was that when I tried to climb out, I couldn't. Seems that the the water in my hair had increased my weight just enough so that I, well, couldn't get out. I swam another lap and tried it again. Same deal.

My first thought was that I would probably drown, but then I realized that by placing my hind feet on the bottom of the tank and hanging my front paws over the edge, I could stand up. That was a welcome discovery, because drowning in a stock tank just didn't fit into my plans at all.

Well, there I was, more or less stranded in a tank of water, when I heard a flapping sound in the air above me. This was followed a moment later by a metallic “ping” and a noise that I can only describe as a loud squawk, something like this: “Awk, awk, awk!”

Then something large and black and ugly hit the water with a big kersplash. Kind of startled me. Well, you know me. When things fall out of the sky and land in the water only a few feet away, I don't just stand there. I bark!

Yes sir, I barked. Since I was injured, it wasn't my usual deep ferocious bark, but it wasn't all that bad either. I had a feeling that whatever had fallen into the tank would get the message.

Well, the subject . . . creature, thing, whatever it was, came up sputtering and flapping its . . . hmmm, flapping its wings. That was my first clue. No, actually the second. The first clue, now that I began to focus my powers of concentration, had been “big and black and ugly.” To that information I added the “flapping of wings,” and bingo, I had sketched out the identity of the mysterious intruder.

We had us a buzzard in the stock tank, is what we had. Now all that remained was for me to deter­mine which of the two local buzzards had been dumb enough to fall off the windmill tower.

“Halt! Who goes there! State your name, rank, and brand of cereal at once!”

“Shut up, dog, you're supposed to be our supper and I'm a-fixing to drown if I don't get out of here. Junior, you git yourself down here and save my life, it was you that pushed me into that dadgummed windmill fan and got me knocked off the dad­gummed tower!”

“W-w-w-well, y-you k-kept c-c-c-crowdin' me and y-you sh-shouldn't be so p-p-pushy all the t-t-time, all the time. Y-y-you're s-so g-g-g-g-greedy, it s-s-serves you r-r-right.”

“That's a fine thang for a boy to say about his own flesh and blood, his poor old daddy who's scrimped and saved and tried to bring him up right!”

“W-w-when did y-you s-s-scrimp and s-s-s-save?”

By this time the pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. What we had was a buzzard named Wallace in the stock tank and another named Junior up on the windmill tower.

There was a moment of silence, so I took the opportunity to say, “Excuse me, but it seems to me . . .”

“Shut up, dog, this here's a family affair and we don't need your two cents.” He turned back to Junior. “When did I scrimp and save? Son, I've scrimped and saved a thousand times over the years as I tried to teach you right from wrong, and how to get along in a hostile world.”

“Y-y-yeah, but I m-m-mean l-lately.”

“Lately? All right, maybe I've backslid a little and maybe I haven't scrimped and saved as much I should have, but that don't mean . . . son, I'm a-fixing to drown, buzzards wasn't built for swimming!”

“M-m-maybe our d-d-doggie f-f-friend will he-he-help you. H-hi, d-d-doggie.”

I dipped my head at him. “How's it going, Junior?”

“Oh f-f-f-fine, except P-p-pa's f-fixing to, uh, d-d-drown to d-d-death in the w-w-w-w-w-w . . . stock t-t-tank.”

“Well, I could probably help the old wretch, if he'd just show the courtesy of asking for it.”

Wallace thrashed and sputtered. “Forget that, pooch! I ain't a rich bird and I ain't got much to show for all these years of toil and woe, but I've got my pride, yes I do, and I have never accepted help from my supper!”

I shrugged. “In that case, I hope you enjoy drowning as much as I'll enjoying letting you.”

At this point you're probably sitting on the edge of your chair, wondering if I actually let the old buzzard drown.

Yes, I did.

Or let's put it this way. To find out if Wallace drowned, and if I was eaten by hungry cannibals, you'll have to keep on reading and go to the next chapter.

I'm out of room for this chapter, see.

Chapter Eleven: A Buzzard Family Feud

O
kay, we had one buzzard drowning in the stock tank and another buzzard perched on top of the windmill tower. Pretty exciting, huh?

I lifted my head and spoke to Junior, up on the tower. “I've done all a dog can do, Junior. I guess you're about to become an orphan.”

“Oh d-d-d-darn. H-he's so s-s-s-stubborn. And g-g-g-greedy.”

“Help! Son, is that all you can say after all I've done for you, after all the wonderful times we've enjoyed together? Just think of all the many dead skunks we've shared.”

“Y-y-yeah, b-but y-you always g-g-g-g-got the s-s-skunk and I g-got the s-s-s-stink.”

“No, I never, sometimes you say the most hateful things, Junior, I cain't imagine where you come up with 'em, but the point is that I am a-fixing to DROWN!”

Junior didn't say another word. Neither did I. We just watched as the old man thrashed and squawked and sputtered. His ugly bald head went under two times, and that second trip seemed to have made an impression on him.

“Say there, neighbor, I don't reckon you could spare the time to help a poor old buzzard who's down on his luck, could you now?”

“Oh, I might. Do you suppose that poor old buzzard could say please?”

“NO, I CERTAIN DON'T THINK . . .” His head went under again. “Yes, by crackies, I sure think we could . . . dog, would you please grab a-holt of me and spare me from this fate of drowning to death?”

I dog-paddled out to where he was and offered him a paw. He took the paw AND the leg, climbed up on top of my head, pushed me underwater, and hopped up on the rim of the tank. When I came up, he was sitting there, dripping water and glaring at me and the rest of the world.

“That's what you git for tryin' to force manners on a buzzard. It ain't natural.”

“Does that mean the same as ‘thank you'?”

“No, it sure don't. I ain't sayin' thank you to no pot-lickin' ranch dog, and in fact, I'm a-takin' back the ‘please' I just said.”

Junior almost fell off the tower when he heard that. “Y-y-y-you c-c-can't d-do th-that, P-p-p-pa. Y-you c-c-can't t-t-take b-back p-p-pleases, once y-you've s-s-s-said 'em.”

Wallace glared up at him. “Who says I cain't? If I gave it, I can take it back. If I said it, I can un-say it. If I offered it in the spirit of brotherhood, I can unoffer it in the spirit of true Buzzard­hood.”

“B-b-but P-pa, he s-s-saved your l-l-life!”

“So? He done the world a huge favor and that ort to be reward enough in itself, and he don't need me sayin' a bunch of mealymouth thank-yous that I don't believe in, and which no buzzard worth shootin' would believe in, and you could take a lesson from that yourself, son, and quit carryin' on like an I-don't-know-what, and puttin' on airs, because you ain't a little hummingbird, son, you're a BUZZARD, from a long line of buzzards.”

The old man turned to me. “And buzzards is buzzards, and we're proud to be buzzards, and buzzards don't say PLEASE and buzzards don't say THANK YOU, especially to dogs, and you can either put that in your pipe and smoke it, or chew it up and spit it out, I don't give a rip which.”

Up on the tower, Junior gave his head a sad shake. “Oh P-p-pa, y-you're s-s-so t-terrible!”

“That's right, and proud of it too.”

At that very moment—you won't believe this—at that very moment, I thought I heard music, real pretty music, and Junior started singing this song.

Family Fugue

Junior

Sometimes, Pa, I think you are a dirty rotten cad.

You're my dad,

But still, I think you could adjust.

You simply must acquire some polish and some class.

Saying please won't hurt your reputation, and in fact,

It could help you some.

It's dumb to offend the very one

Who's lent a hand and pulled you drowning from a tank.

Wallace

Son, I've tried to school you in the facts of buzzard lore,

You're a bore.

But still, I think you could adjust.

You really must quit talking nonsense to your pa.

Buzzards by their very definition are uncouth,

That's the truth.

What's dumb is showing courtesy and manners

To the very dog we came here just to eat.

Junior

Yeah, but Pa, I think you ought to show some courtesy

Just to me.

Because we are kinfolks doesn't mean you have a right

To treat me like we're relatives.

I can see there's very little hope of getting through

To you.

I'm glad I pushed you off the windmill tower

And I hope that almost drowning did you good.

Wallace
(counter melody)

This boy talks nonsense.

Where did I fail?

Where did I go wrong?

He didn't learn it from his pa.

I won't say thank you.

I won't say please.

I will ignore you.

And I hope that this ignoring does you good.

When they were done with the song, the old man turned to me and said, “And that's my last word on the subject, I don't want to hear any more about it, and Junior, me and you need to be scoutin' around for something dead to eat, and if we don't hurry, it's liable to be ME.”

“Y-y-yeah, I'm about to s-s-starve.”

“We come here two hours ago, thinkin' this silly dog was going to be the answer to our prayers, but here he is . . .” The old man gave me the evil eye. “You're a-wasting our time, dog. Are you available for supper or ain't you? Just a simple yes or no, never mind the details.”

“No.”

“Fine. Junior, with one simple word, this dog has just broke my heart into thirteen pieces. I don't know what your plans are for the rest of the evening, but I'm fixin' to get airborne and hunt grub.” Then back to me: “But things change, puppy, and we'll sure 'nuff check you out first thing in the morning.”

And with that, he pointed himself into the wind, pushed off the edge of the tank, flapped his wings, and climbed into the evening sky.

Junior grinned down at me from the tower. “H-h-he's j-just awful s-s-sometimes. W-well, I g-guess I'd b-b-better g-go or h-he'll be b-b-back and s-s-start y-yelling at m-me again. B-bye, D-d-doggie.”

“See you around, Junior, and say, I liked that song.”

“Oh th-thanks. P-pa d-didn't h-h-hear any of it, b-but I'm g-glad you l-l-l-l-liked it. B-bye.”

He rocked back and forth three times, and with a loud grunt, pushed off the windmill tower and flew away. No sooner had the swish of his wings vanished in the distance than I heard another sound that sent shivers of dread down my spine.

“Ahh-ooooooo!”

Coyotes, and they were close. Holy smokes, darkness was coming and there I was, all alone in the pasture, too beat up and injured to climb out of the stock tank and run for my life!

“Ah-oooooooo! Ah-ooooooo!”

There it was again, the evening song of heartless hairy cannibals. The howls were close and coming closer. By now they had picked up my scent and were moving in for the kill. I could almost see their yellow eyes sparkling and the foam dripping off their deadly fangs.

Crouched and shivering in my watery grave, I held my breath and listened. I heard the swish of their paws in the grass. I heard them belching and laughing. Then, much to my dismay, I heard them tune up and sing the Coyote Sacred Hymn and National Anthem.

Me just a worthless coyote,

Me howling at the moon.

Me like to sing and holler,

Me crazy as a loon.

Me not want job or duties,

No church or Sunday school.

Me just a worthless coyote

But me ain't nobody's fool.

I had heard those two verses before, and indeed, in better days I had even sung them with Rip and Snort on several occasions. I had never heard them sing but the two verses and wouldn't have bet a nickel that they knew any more, but now, before my very ears, they sang a third verse.

Me catch the smell of supper,

A-floating in the breeze.

With all this dust and pollen,

It make me want to sneeze.

It smell like something yummy,

It smell like something neat.

It smell just like a HOT DOG,

And hot dog, me love to eat!

I didn't like that new verse, not at all. In fact, it made me, uh, very nervous to hear them out there in the darkness . . . I sure needed to get out of that stock tank, and all my instincts began screaming RUN! in the back of my mind.

But running from heartless hairy cannibals was a sure and certain way to get caught. I mean, you might as well try to run away from your own shadow. Once those guys locked into a scent and got on a trail, there was no stopping them, no escape.

I didn't run. I couldn't have run, even if I'd wanted to, and so I hunkered down in the water and waited like a helpless rabbit—waited and listened to the sounds of my assassins as they came closer, ever closer.

I could make out their voices now: Rip and Snort. I recognized the tone of their belching. Well, maybe I could talk my way out of this. I had done it before. Rip and Snort were heartless brutes but they had their weak spots. Maybe if . . .

But then I heard another voice, and all my hopes were dashed. It was a deep and cruel voice. It belonged to Scraunch the Terrible.

“Scraunch think we come to end of trail. Here at windmill, we find big yummy ranch dog, oh boy!”

And with that, Scraunch walked up to the edge of the tank and looked inside.