The Phantom in the Mirror (4 page)

Chapter Six: Something Lurking in the Weeds

“A
handsome prince? How do you know that?”

“Well, I can just tell by looking. He's hand­some and brave and kind, and he looks like a prince. Hello there, Mister Handsome Prince. My name's Drover, and when I grow up, I want to look just like you.”

In spite of my wounds and injuries, I pushed myself up on all-fours and hobbled over to the mirror. “Out of the way, Drover, I'll handle it from here. I happen to speak their language, whereas you can hardly speak your own.”

“Well, he seemed to understand what I was saying.”

“He was just being polite, Drover, and we can't risk blowing this historic opportunity. Now move aside before I have to go to more drastic measures.”

“Well, okay.”

I pushed him aside and stepped in front of the mirror. I was about to address this Handsome Prince fellow, when . . .

HUH?

“Drover, you moron, that's no handsome prince. That's the same guy who just beat me up!”

“I thought you . . .”

“Never mind what you thought. If he gets out of that mirror, we're in deep trouble.”

“Oh my gosh, let's run to the machine shed!”

“We're already in the machine shed!”

“Oh, my leg!”

While Drover squeaked and limped around in circles, I decided that my best shot would be to speak to the Killer Phantom Dog and try to run a bluff on him.

“Okay, Phantom Dog, just stay where you are and don't try any funny stuff. This place is surrounded. I've got fifteen huge Doberman pinschers waiting in reserve, right outside the door. One word from me and they'll be in here, ready to attack.”

He didn't say a word, just stared at me.

“I'm willing to withdraw my troops if you'll swear on your Word of Honor that you won't set foot on my ranch. That's the best offer I can make. What do you say to that?”

He looked pretty scared, I had a feeling that he was ready to make a deal, and it came as no big surprise when he nodded his head and began backing away.

It happened that I began backing away at just about the same time. He backed and I backed. “That's right, mister, just keep moving and we won't have any bloodshed. Come on, Drover, let's get out of here!”

I wheeled around and dived out into the sunshine.

We went streaking away from the machine shed and took refuge behind the chicken house. In the process of making good our escape . . . retreat . . .

In the process of executing our Reverse Attack Procedure, we bulldozed several chickens who were foolish enough to stand in our way. They were pecking gravel and seeds and other garbage that chickens eat, and you should have seen them scatter when we went zooming across the gravel drive!

“BAWK, BAWK, BAWK!”

I loved it. Nothing in this line of work brings quite as much satisfaction as scattering chickens, unless it's treeing cats. That's fun too.

On the west side of the chicken house, we collapsed and caught our breath. Only then did we dare to celebrate our victory over the Phantom Dog in the Mirror and his comrade, whom we knew only as “The Handsome Prince.”

“That was a close call, Drover. One false move and those guys might have taken over this ranch. I figger they had a whole army in that mirror, just waiting to attack.”

“No fooling? How did they get a whole army into a mirror?”

I couldn't help chuckling at his nativity. “Son, maybe you don't understand about mirrors. A mirror appears to be a flat surface, but it's actually a black hole that leads to another dimension of reality.”

“I'll be derned. I knew something was funny, 'cause I felt more like I did then than I do right now.”

“What?”

“I said, I feel more like I do right now than I did a while ago.”

“Hmmm, yes. Obviously you fell under the influence of the mirror's powerful gravitational field, so it was natural that you noticed something odd.”

“Yeah, that was quite a field of gravel. Kind of hurt my feet.”

“Yes, it was a feat to remember. What's even more impressive is that we sent their entire army fleeing into the bottomless depths of the mirror.”

“We sure taught 'em a lesson.”

“Exactly. They won't forget us, Drover, We made them look pretty silly.”

He rolled his eyes around. “Gosh, I hope they don't come back and try to even the score.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Drover.” In the silence, I found myself, uh, rolling my eyes around. “Yes, I hope we weren't too hard on them, Drover, do you ever get the feeling that you're being watched?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you have that feeling at this particular moment?”

“Well . . .”

“If you don't, just say no, that will be fine. In fact, I'd rather you said no.”

“Well . . .”

I rose to my feet and backed myself against the side of the chicken house, just in case they tried to take me from behind.

“Something fishy's going on here, Drover. I don't want to alarm you, but I KNOW we're being watched by someone or some thing.”

“I thought you didn't want to alarm me.”

“I don't.”

“Then quit talking like that!”

“I'm merely stating . . .”

All at once Drover's eyes bugged out. “Hank, oh my gosh, THERE'S SOMETHING IN THOSE WEEDS OVER THERE!”

I, uh, tried to run through the side of the chicken house, in hopes of building a new door, but the chicken house proved to be a little stouter than I had supposed.

I bounced off, hit the ground, leaped to my feet, and turned to face the attack of . . .

“Drover, unless I'm badly mistaken, someone or something is lurking in those weeds.”

“Oh my gosh, I knew it, help, it's the Famine Dog and, oh my leg!”

“Quiet, Drover. Stop spinning in circles and listen to me.”

He stopped spinning but continued to shiver.

“Chances are it's only a weed blowing in the wind, I'm almost sure it is. In fact, I'm so sure about it that I'm willing to let you check it out.”

“Me!”

I placed my paw on his shoulder. “That's right, Drover. But always remember: I would never send you on a mission that I wouldn't take myself.”

“Oh good, then why don't you take it?”

“Because you need the experience. Now go.”

I gave him a shove with my nose and he went creeping toward the whatever-it-was in the weeds. He took ten steps, froze, spun around, and came trotting back.

“I did it, Hank, I checked it out and I wasn't even scared.”

“See? I knew you could do it. Did you get a positive identification?”

Oh yeah. It's only J. T. Cluck, and I'm so proud of myself!”

“Nice work, son, I'll take it from here.” I went swaggering over to the weeds. “All right, J.T., you can come out now. We've recaptured this area and it's safe to return to your home.”

J.T. poked his head out of the weeds and looked from side to side. “Where'd the rascal go?”

“He's gone back to where he came from, J.T., and I doubt that we'll ever see him around here again.”

“You say you ran him off?”

“That's correct, and we did it without much effort.”

“Huh. You must know something I don't know, 'cause that was the meanest darn guy I ever ran into. And he sure did stink.”

“I'll need to ask you some questions, J.T.”

“Sure, ask me anything. Ask Elsa, she saw the whole thing. I was just peckin' around for bugs, see, little black bugs, found a whole bunch of 'em up there by the water well, and Elsa, she seen this guy coming up behind me, and she said . . .”

“Can you give me a description?”

“Huh? Sure I can. They're little black bugs with six legs, and they're pretty tasty.”

“I don't care about the bugs. Describe your assailant.”

He stared at me and blinked his eyes. “Naw, I wasn't sailing. I was pecking for bugs, when all at once this guy . . .”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Get a look at him? Naw, my head was down. Who can see with his head down? Naw, I didn't get a look at the rascal, but I smelled him, and boy, did he stink!”

I studied the rooster with hard, cold eyes. “That's the second time you've mentioned the smell of the Phantom Dog of the Mirror. It makes me curious.”

“That's good. Every ranch mutt ought to be curious about something.”

“There's only one problem with your testimony, J.T.”

“Oh yeah? What's the problem? I want to hear about it.”

“You will, if you'll shut your beak.”

“Elsa wouldn't approve of you talkin' to me like that, mister.”

“Too bad for Elsa. The problem is that I met the same Phantom Dog myself, this very afternoon, and I didn't notice any smell whatsoever.”

J.T. looked at me with those weird rooster eyes. “Oh yeah? Well, maybe that's because the guy I ran into was a SKUNK.”

The word went through me like a bolt of cloth. Suddenly the investigation had taken on a new and sinister dimension which would lead to . . .

Well, you'll see.

Chapter Seven: J.T.'s Shocking Revelation

J
. T. Cluck, the head rooster, had just made a shocking revelation. It took me a moment to adjust to the news, then:

“What? A skunk in the machine shed? Why wasn't I informed of this?”

“You was probably sleeping your life away on that gunnysack, would be my guess, and besides that, no rooster worth his salt needs to go running to a fool ranch dog every time there's a little danger lurking on the place. I can take care of my own business, pooch.”

“Maybe you can and maybe you can't, but the fact remains that you failed to report the unauthorized entry of a skunk on MY ranch.”

“That's right, mister, and what do you aim to do about it?”

What I aimed to do about it was remove about five pounds of feathers from his tail section, which I did. I mean, who did that bird think he was talking to?

The Head of Ranch Security does not take trash off the cats or the chickens, period. It cost J.T. a bundle of feathers but he learned a valuable lesson about mouthing off to the wrong dog.

My goodness, you should have seen him jump and heard him squawk! It was very satisfying, just by George made my whole day better and brighter.

Of course, it brought my interrogation to a sud­den stop, since J.T. went highballing back to the chicken house, but that was okay because I'd learned all I needed to know anyway.

Spitting feathers, I returned to the spot where my assistant was waiting. “Well, Drover, this tooey case has taken an interesting patooey twist.”

“What?”

“I said, this feather has taken an interesting patooey.”

“Oh.”

“Twist.”

“Twist what?”

“No, no. I said, this patooey has taken an interesting . . . I seem to have a mouthful of patooeys.”

He stared at me. “Did you know that you've got a mouthful of feathers?”

“That's what I just said, Drover. Could it be that you weren't paying attoey?”

“I thought you said you had a mouthful of petunias.”

“No, I did not say that. I said ‘patooey,' not ‘petunias.'”

“I'll be derned. What's a patooey?”

The runt was beginning to strain my patience. “Patooey is the sound one makes when one is spitting feathers.”

“Oh. Well, that makes sense 'cause you've got feathers all over your mouth. Maybe that's why you were spitting feathers.”

“I know that, you brick. Once again, you're repeating the obvious and beating a dead plow.”

“Horse.”

“What?”

“A dead horse.”

“A dead horse? Where?”

“Well . . .”

“Hurry, Drover, we don't have a second to spare! Where's the horse?”

“Well . . . you said ‘dead plow' and I think you meant ‘dead horse.'”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”

“I don't know, I'm all confused and quit yelling at me! I can't stand to be yelled at.”

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and walked several paces away. “All right, patooey, let's start at the beginning.”

“My name's not Patooey.”

“I KNOW YOUR . . .” I caught myself and lowered my voice. “I know your name, Drover. What concerns me right now is whether or not you've gone insane. First you talked about petunias, then you said something about a horse that had been murdered in cold blood. Then there was some nonsense about . . . what was it?”

“A dead plow?”

“That's it. Drover, a plow can't possibly be dead because it was never alive to start with.”

“I know but . . .”

“Let me finish. You see, Drover, death grows out of life, and life is what this life is all about. Is that clear?”

All at once his eyes seemed to cross. “I'm so confused I think I'll go back to bed.”

“No chance of that, son. During my interrogation of J. T. Cluck, I learned that we have a skatooey skunk running wild on the ranch.”

“Oh my gosh! What's a skatooey skunk?”

I looked deeply into the huge vacuum of his eyes. “Are you trying to make a mockery of this investigation? Have you no respect for law and order? Is nothing sacred anymore? Tell me, Drover, because . . .”

My ears shot up. Operating entirely on their own, they had picked up the sound of the screen door slamming up at the house.

“. . . because it could very well be scrap time up at the yard gate. In other words, drop everything and go to Red Alert. Unless we hurry, the cat might get some of our scraps!”

And with that, we went streaking down to the yard gate. We never did get around to finishing our conversation, but that was okay with me. Trying to carry on an intelligent, coherent, meaningful conversation with Drover can be very discouraging.

Sometimes I even think . . . oh well. There's no sense in beating a dead plow.

We went streaking up to the . . . I've already said that, but the important thing is that we got there before the cat did. I mean, we beat him BAD, which is one of the best things that can happen to a cat on our outfit.

Have we discussed cats? Maybe not. I don't like 'em, not even a little tiny bit, have no use for 'em whatsoever. A cat is a totally worthless creature, and if I were in charge of designing and directing the world . . .

You know, that's not such an outrageous thought, me being put in charge of the entire world. Just look at my record as Head of Ranch Security. It's pretty impressive.

I mean, any dog who can operate a ranch can operate something bigger. The world is bigger.

Therefore, it follows from simple logic that . . . well, maybe you get the drift.

So where were we? Oh yes, at the yard gate. Drover and I had gotten there first and were waiting for Sally May to come outside with our scraps.

Under Ranch Law, we were entitled to first dibs on the goodies, which on any given day might include roast beef trimmings (which I like very much), fatty ends of bacon (which I love), and several slices of burned toast (which I can live without).

Pete came slinking up to the gate—purring, holding his tail straight up in the air, and rubbing on everything in sight. He tried to rub on my leg.

“Get away, cat. That rubbing business drives me nuts.”

He grinned up at me. “Hi, Hankie. Did you find the Phantom Dog in the machine shed?”

“I not only found him, Kitty, but also gave him a thrashing and ordered him off my ranch.”

“How interesting! Did he remind you of yourself?”

“Not at all. Not even a little bit. He was arrogant, overbearing, pompous, and not very smart.”

Suddenly the cat choked. At first I thought he was having a seizure but then it appeared that he was only laughing.

“I'm glad to see that you're enjoying this, Kitty, but I'm afraid the joke is on you.” The cat screeched with laughter and nodded his head. “Not only did you give an incorrect description of the Phantom Dog, but you neglected to mention that he was traveling with a companion—a smallish white dog who called himself the Handsome Prince.”

Drover stepped forward. “Yeah, and I saw him myself, didn't I, Hank?”

“That's correct, Drover, and you'll be rewarded for that.”

“When?”

“Later.” The cat went into another fit of laughter. I glared down at him, then turned my gaze on Drover. “This cat seems to have come unhinged, and I haven't even gotten to the part about the skunk.”

“Yeah. I'll bet he won't laugh about that.”

Pete stopped laughing, sat up, and wiped his eyes. “Oh my goodness, tell me about the skunk!”

“I was just about to do that, Kitty. You see, after checking out your garbled report, we learned through our intelligence network that the Phantom Dog and the Handsome Prince released a fully-armed, heat-seeking, infrared, turbo-charged skunk on this ranch, and we have reason to suspect that he will strike at any moment.”

The cat fell over on his back and howled with laughter. I shook my head. “Drover, did you find anything funny in what I just said?”

“It sounded pretty serious to me.”

“I agree. So what's wrong with this cat?”

“I don't know. Maybe he's just dumb.”

“Well, yes, of course. We knew that all along, but there's more to it than that. I'm beginning to wonder if he's come down with some terrible disease such as Turkeylabosis.”

“Gosh, what's that?”

“The victim begins to act like a crazed turkey, Drover. It strikes without warning and there's no cure for it. The disease just has to run its course.”

Still laughing, the cat struggled to his feet and staggered down the hill toward the gas tanks. We watched and shared a moment of sadness.

“Poor old Pete!” said Drover.

“Yes, even a cat deserves better than this. But we must go on with Life's journey, Drover.”

And with that, we tore our attention away from Pete and turned to the sad business of eating his share of the scraps.