The Case of the Kidnapped Collie (2 page)

Chapter Two: A Porkchop on the Eighth Floor

M
y eyes locked on Loper's face. He wasn't kidding. He had actually invited . . . oh brother, that's all I needed: My least favorite bird dog in the whole world would soon be invading my ranch and my privacy!

I was outraged, and just to show how angry I felt about this, I turned a Poisoned Glare on him. It should have ruined his day and made him feel guilty about his careless decision, but it didn't. He didn't even notice.

Instead, he pushed himself up and said, “We'd better get this mess finished. Billy said he'd be here around four.”

Moments later, the air was filled with the sounds of their work—crashing and banging. It hurt my ears so I decided to move my business to a quieter location.

Also, my feelings were hurt. Apparently it had never occurred to the Ranch Executives (I'll not mention any names) to give ME a shot at the bird dog job.

Can you believe that? I couldn't. I was amazed.

Shocked.

Deeply hurt.

Wounded almost beyond repair.

I mean, what's the big deal about pointing birds? Ask the best dog trainers. Ask an experienced hunter. Ask, well, ME, since I'm here and handy and happen to have some pretty strong opinions on this matter.

What's the big deal about pointing birds? IT'S NO BIG DEAL AT ALL. Any dog with half a brain could point a bunch of stupid twittering birds. Drover could be a bird dog. Pete the Barncat could be a bird dog, only he's not a dog, so . . .

Well, you get the drift. It was totally ridiculous that Loper would even consider bringing in an outsider from the outside, when he already had a dog on staff that could do . . . well, almost anything short of magic tricks and miracles, and sure as thunder wouldn't have any trouble pointing quail.

Sorry. I'm getting carried away. My anger is showing. I tried to pretend that I didn't care, that my feelings weren't involved in . . .

I had thought we were friends, pals, companions, comrades, and then he . . . oh well.

They would be sorry, yes they would, all the scoffers and laughers and scaffers and those of little faith. They would eat crowbars before this thing was finished.

Anyway, I had better things to do with my time. I marched right over to Pete. “What are you grinning about, Kitty?”

I didn't wait to hear his answer. I wasn't interested in his answer. I barked in his face and ran him up the nearest tree. It served him right. And he needed the exercise. I'd noticed that he was getting fat.

And besides, chasing him up a tree made me feel much better.

I left the Wood Butchers, hiked over to the gas tanks, and flopped down on my gunnysack. Drover was already there—had been there most of the day, in fact, sleeping his life away.

It was a warm, rather lazy afternoon, and it wasn't long until I began to notice that my eyelids were . . . snork murk . . . exhausted from the rigor mortis of protecting the . . . skonk snirk . . .

Okay, maybe I dozed off, but I deserved a rest.

I had just pulled three shifts in a row and had put in, oh, eighteen or twenty hours straight—and we're talking no breaks, no sleep, no nothing but rigors and exhausting work.

I was totally wiped out. Otherwise, I wouldn't have fallen asnork in the middle of the afternork.

Drover was making his usual orchestra of noises: grunting, wheezing, yipping. He's the noisiest sleeper I ever met. Oh, and he also quivers and jerks in his sleep, and sometimes his eyelids fall open and you can see his eyeballs rolling around.

I didn't happen to be looking at his eyeballs because I was deeply involved in a delicious dream about . . . mercy! The lovely Miss Beulah, girl of my dreams, woman of my life, the world's most gorgeous . . .

I almost said “collie gal,” but our use of the word “collie” is still under tight security, don't you see, and I didn't say it. Sorry.

Where were we? Oh yes. Pete came along just then and ruined my dream by slapping my tail with his paw.

Why does he do such things? Well, he's a cat and cats get some kind of twisted pleasure out of tormenting things, such as birds, lizards, mice, and dog tails.

I knew he was there but tried to ignore him, hoping he might go away. You see, I knew that if I gave him my full attention, I would have to give up my dreams of Beulah and I wasn't ready for that.

Hence, when he slapped at my tail, I moved it ever so slightly to the south. Did that stop him? Did he take a hint? Did he care that the Head of Ranch Security was trying to recharge his precious bodily fluids and get ready for another drooling night on Life's Front Lines?

Grueling, I should say.

Oh no. Since my tail had moved, that proved that it was attached to some living object that he could torment, which made him want to slap it again.

So he slapped it again, a little harder this time, and I moved it again, with a bit more vigor, and I'm sure that made his sneaky little cat eyes grow wide with delight—although I couldn't see them because mine were closed.

And he slapped it again, only this time he in­troduced claws into the equation. How foolish of him. I can be broadminded about a cat who slaps my tail around with his paws, but add claws and it changes the deal entirely.

Do you know why? BECAUSE IT HURTS, that's why. My tail is a very sensitive piece of equipment. It's not a brick or a tree root or a piece of windmill pipe. If you prick it, it will bleed. If you stab it, it will hurt. If you step on it, it will bring forth yelps of pain and sorrow.

Hencely, as the sharp little impulses of pain began pouring into Data Control, my eyelids began to quiver and a ferocious growl began to rumble in the deep recessitudes of my throat.

My head came up. My ears shot up to Full Alert Position. Okay, one of them did while the other went sideways into the Huh? Position.

My eyes sprang open and I saw . . . not much, actually, just a large blur. It's the sort of image we get when our scanning devices are focused at conflicting angles. In the Security Business, we sometimes refer to this as Temporary Eye-Crosserosis.

It usually occurs when a dog comes roaring out of a deep sleep, opens his eyes, and tries to figure out whether it's raining or Tuesday.

I know this is pretty heavy technical stuff, but it will give you a little glimpse at how life is lived on the other side of the Veil of Secrecy. Over there, where we live, life is always real but never real simple.

Where was I? Oh yes, the tree. I had just banged my head against . . . forget the tree. I had come roaring out of a deep dark sleep and just for a brief instant my eyes were crossed and my brain was in Scrambled Mode, but that lasted only the briefest of instants.

And suddenly I exclaimed, “Purple hominy regardless of feathered turnip greens and darkest porkchop!”

Then an image came into focus: the face of a cat, the face of a grinning cat who was smirking. The pieces of the puzzle began falling into place and suddenly I exclaimed, “Is this the eighth floor?”

The image of the alleged cat shook his head, and then he said in a whiny voice, “Hi, Hankie. Were you sleeping on the job?”

At that very moment, Data Control kicked in at full blast and I received a very important trans­mission: It was neither raining nor Tuesday. It was Pete the Barncat.

I glared at the little snipe with eyes of purest steel.

“Okay, Kitty, let's get right to the point. We've just learned that there's a porkchop on the eighth floor, and don't bother denying it. We've followed the trail of turnip greens and it leads . . .”

I cut my eyes from side to side. All at once what I was saying didn't make a great deal of sense. I shot a glance back to the cat. Had he noticed? I had to find out how much he knew.

“Pete, do you know anything about this porkchop deal?”

He grinned and shook his head. “No, I don't, Hankie, but I would just love to hear about it. Tell me about the porkchop on the eighth floor.”

I marched a few steps away and took a deep breath of . . . well, air, of course. What else would . . . anyway, it seemed to clear my head.

“I'm sorry, Pete, but I'm not at liberty to discuss a case in progress. Our files are not open to the public, and they're especially not open to public cats.”

“Mmmmmm! It must have been very secret.”

“Exactly. It was so secret, in fact, that if I revealed even one particle of information, I would have to arrest you for being in possession of Dangerous Particles of Information.”

“Oooooooo! My goodness, Hankie, how do you carry all that dangerous information around in your head?”

I could see that he was impressed. He should have been. Maybe he wasn't as dumb as I had thought. I marched back over to where he was sitting.

“That's a good question, Kitty. Unfortunately, I'm not at liberty to say any more about our techniques for gathering and storing intelligence data. Sorry.”

“Oh darn.” He stared at me with those weird yellowish eyes with the little slit down the middle. “I was so eager to learn more about the porkchop on the eighth floor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, Hankie, that's what you said when you,” he grinned, “woke up from your nap during working hours.”

Perhaps you're thinking that all of this sounds slightly ridiculous, but it's leading up to something very important. You see, in the course of the conversation, Pete revealed . . . well, you'll find out soon enough.

It had to do with a robbery that was taking place on my ranch in broad daylight, and that's all I can tell you.

Chapter Three: My Clever Interrogation of the Cat

I
felt the hair rising on the back of my neck. “Number One, I wasn't asleep. Number Two, I never said anything about a so-called porkchop on the so-called ninth floor.”

“Eighth floor, Hankie.”

“Don't try to put words into my mouth, cat. I know what I said.”

“I thought you didn't say it.”

“I didn't say it, and that's my whole point. I didn't say it because it was totally ridiculous. There is no porkchop and there is no eighth floor, but I know what you're doing.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.” I stuck my nose in his face. “You're trying to send up a smoke screen of meaningless words to conceal the fact that you stuck your claws into my tail. Don't try to deny it.”

“All right, Hankie, I won't.”

“Huh? Well, I . . . I'm shocked, Pete. I don't know what to say. I was sure you'd deny it and then try to draw me into an argument.”

He blinked his eyes and grinned. Why was he always grinning? It made me uneasy.

“Oh no, Hankie. I used to do things like that but then I learned my lesson.”

“Oh? What lesson are we talking about?”

He licked his left paw before speaking. I studied and memorized his every move, just in case this was another of his famous frauds.

“I learned that it's almost impossible to fool the Head of Ranch Security.”

“Well! Imagine that. I can hardly believe my ears. In fact, I don't believe my ears. Say it again.”

“All right, Hankie, whatever you wish. I've learned that I can't fool you and that's why I admit that I stuck my little claws into the end of your tail.”

I paced off to the east. My mind was trying to absorb this astonishing piece of news and it needed a moment to catch up.

“You've come a long way, Pete, and to be real honest about it, we never thought you'd change. Our profiles and projections showed you in the Normal Range of cats: sneaky, hateful, untrustworthy, treacherous, and, well, not real smart, if I may be so blunt.”

“Oh, go right ahead, Hankie. I realize that I'm only a cat.”

“That's true, Pete, and you can't help it that cats are . . . how can I say this?”

“Dumb?”

“Good word, Pete, great word. I wouldn't have thought of putting it that way but, yes, ‘dumb' sort of captures the overall . . .”

“Condition, Hankie?”

“Yes, right, exactly. The overall condition of catness.” I marched over and gave the little guy a pat on the back. “Hey Pete, I feel we've reached a breakthrough situation. I mean, all these years we've been enemies and now, all at once, you admit that you're stupid and . . . hey, we've got nothing left to fight about!”

He purred and continued to grin, only now it didn't bother me because I realized that he was being sincere.

“At last we're at peace, Hankie.”

“Right, and it wasn't so bad was it? Did you ever dream that making peace would be so easy?”

“Never did, Hankie. Oh, is Beulah coming?”

I glared at him. “What did you just say?”

“I wondered if Beulah would be coming with Plato.”

I cut my eyes from side to side. “I hadn't thought of that, Pete, so how did you happen to think of it?”

“Oh, I heard the cowboys say that Plato was coming. Every time Plato comes around, Beulah is with him. I just wondered.”

I marched a few steps away. My mind was racing. “Go on, Pete. I have a feeling that this is leading somewhere.”

“Well . . . if she comes to watch her bird dog boy­friend perform, I thought it might be nice if you . . .”

He was staring at me with those weird full­moon eyes. And grinning. And flicking the end of his tail back and forth.

“If I what? What kind of sneaky tricks are running through that sneaky little mind of yours?”

“Oh, you might not be interested, Hankie.”

I stomped over to him and stuck my nose in his face. “I'm not interested, Kitty, but part of my job on this ranch is to stay one step ahead of the cats. Out with it.”

He drew circles in the dust with his paw. “Well, if I were you, I'd want to impress Miss Beulah.”

“Ha! Me impress Miss Beulah? Hey Pete, for your information, she's crazy about me and . . . impress her in what way? I mean, just for laughs I want to hear the rest of this.”

He blinked his eyelids and grinned. “Well, Hankie, you can show her and everyone else that you can hunt birds as well as Plato. I know a way.”

I almost took the bait. I almost asked him to tell me more, but caught myself just in time. Chuckling, I turned and walked a few steps away.

“Ha, ha, ha. Pete, you're the champ when it comes to scheming, but there are a couple of holes in your ointment. Number one, Beulah probably won't come. Number two, if she does come, I plan to be very busy with my routine work. Number three, Plato is just a minor irritation to me. Number four, I don't need to impress him or Beulah or anyone else. That would be childish and silly.

“Number five, I have no interest in birds. Zero. Zilch. Birds are totally boring. And number six, this conversation is over. Now run along and catch a mouse.”

He started to leave in that sliding gliding walk of his. “Whatever you think, Hankie, but if you change your mind, I'll be around.”

“Fine. Great. I won't change my mind. Thanks for trying to be helpful, but I don't need any help. Good-bye.”

He left. Peace at last. What a crazy idea, me trying to impress Beulah with . . . actually, it wasn't such a . . . but on the other hand, I didn't need to impress her—her or anyone else.

Hey, I was comfortable just being who I was: Head of Ranch Security, owner of a huge ranch and many cattle; a heroic guard dog, a fairly handsome feller; winner of countless awards and also unusually handsome and charming.

Wasn't that enough? Was there more? I didn't think so. If Beulah couldn't admire who I was, the real Hank the Cowdog; if she needed circus acts and magic tricks, then . . .

I found my eyes following the cat. He was slinking along with his tail stuck straight up in the air, rubbing on every tree and past he posted. Post he passed. And every now and then, I noticed that he was tossing lazy glances back at me.

Hmmmm. Was it possible that he knew something that . . . no. Simple logic told me that anything known to a cat would be known first to a dog. Therefore . . .

Therefore the little sneak certainly looked as though he knew something important, and the best cure for that false impression was for me to stop looking at him.

Some cats need more ignoring than others. Pete requires a lot. And so it was that I embarked on a new policy of Total Ignoration of the Cat, which turned out to be pretty easy because at that very moment my ears picked up the tiny micro­waves of an Incoming Vehicle.

The big question that loomed before me then was, AUTHORIZED VEHICLE OR TRESPASSER?

I did a Direct Downlink Feed to Data Control and got a flashing message on the huge screen of my mind: TRESPASSER!

Well, you know me. There are several things I don't allow on my ranch and one of them is tres­passers and unauthorized intrusions.

Okay, that's two things but they mean about the same thing and neither one was allowed. That pickup had no business on our outfit and it was fixing to get the whole nine yards of barking and threatening gestures.

“Drover, we have a very important mission ahead of us and we're fixing to go to Red Alert. Are you ready for some combat?”

He leaped to his feet and began staggering around in circles. His eyes were crooked, his ears were crooked. It appeared to me that his mind might also be crooked.

“Is it my turn to bat?”

“I didn't say anything about batting, Drover, and Life is not a mere game.”

“Oh my gosh, then who's on first?”

“You're still asleep, son. Look at me and tell me how many fingers I'm holding up.”

He turned his eyes in my direction. They were still crooked. “Thirty-seven?”

“Wrong. Dogs don't have fingers. Therefore, the correct answer is zero.”

“Zero! No wonder I'm so cold. Water freezes at thirty-two.”

“Yes, but you said thirty-seven, so you're wrong again.”

He blinked his eyes and looked around. “Where am I? What are we talking about?”

“We're in our bedroom under the gas tanks. You've been sleeping your life away and I just asked if you were ready for some combat.”

“Not really.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘Combat. Oh boy.'”

“That's the spirit. We'll go to Full Flames on all engines and regroup in front of the house, and don't get lost.”

“Well, I hope this old leg . . .”

I didn't wait around to hear about his “old leg.” I had heard it all before, not once or twice but ten thousand times, enough that I was beginning to suspect that he was a hypocardiac.

Anyways, I didn't have time to hang around and listen to him whine about his leg. I went to Full Flames and roared around the south side of the house, and sure enough, looming up before my very eyes was an unauthorized vehicle.