The Case of the Kidnapped Collie (6 page)

Chapter Ten: I Arrest the Thieving Turkeys

T
hirty yards out, I locked in on the five biggest gluttonyest birds. They had pushed the rest out of the way and were gobbling corn. At twenty yards, I began arming Tooth Cannons and Barko­lasers.

By this time, several of the turkey elders heard me coming. They lifted their heads and began clucking. The others stopped their pecking and so forth and pointed in my direction. They knew
some­thing
was fixing to happen, but they didn't know exactly what.

They were growing restless, moving around in that long awkward trot of theirs—turkey trot, I suppose you'd call it. They have long skinny legs, don't you know, and the legs are hinged backward at the knee. They look pretty silly when they bounce along, like camels or something, and the faster they walk the sillier they look.

Ten yards out, I reached for the Firing Button and . . . was that a voice coming from the direction of the house? A human voice? Yes, there it was again.

“Hank, don't you dare . . . !”

It seemed to be the voice of Sally May who seemed to be standing out on the front porch. Amidst the roar of the wind and my rocket engines, I couldn't hear everything she was saying but I pretty muchly knew. She was cheering me on to battle but also worrying that I might get hurt.

Good old Sally May, always concerned about the safety of her dogs and children. That's a mother for you. Instead of fretting over the loss of her precious supply of winter corn, she was worried sick about . . . well, ME, you might say.

Pretty touching, huh?

It almost brought tears to my eyes.

Just knowing that she REALLY CARED made it all worthwhile—the sacrifice, the danger, the tremendous effort, and, yes, the fun. I'll admit that I was having fun.

Five yards away from Point Zero, I was ready to scatter some birds. I opened up with Full Barko­­lasers and went smashing and crashing right into the middle of the villains.

My goodness, you never saw such flapping or heard such clucking and squawking! I mean, I had scattered more than my share of chickens but this was my first attempt at plowing through a herd of turkeys.

Fellers, if a dog enjoys running through chickens, he will absolutely LOVE bulldozing turkeys. I mean, the noise and the action that turkeys produce are guaranteed to give a ranch dog the biggest thrill of his life.

It's like chickens multiplied by ten.

It was wonderful! There for a few seconds, I experienced the total thrill of . . . hmm, power, I suppose—the pure raw power of an angry ranch dog administering Ranch Justice.

I loved it, the squawking and flapping. Ho, ho! Feathers flew and so did birds, feathers and birds flying off in all directions like an explosion of, well, feathers and birds.

Hey, I felt so wild and excited about this deal that I zoomed in and grabbed the biggest tom turkey in the bunch, put the old Cowdog Fanglock on his . . .

BIFF! BONK! POW!

. . . wing, and the thing you never hear about wild turkeys is that you should never try to grab one. Remember those long skinny legs? They look pretty funny until they're in your face and breadbox, and that's when you realize that wild turkeys are a whole lot tougher and meaner than your average chicken.

No comparison.

Turkeys stay wild and alive by kicking, gouging, clawing, pecking, and wing-thrashing anything foolish enough to take hold of them. In the first five seconds, I had the turkey. Over the next two minutes, which seemed like two hours, he had ME, and fellers, I thought I never would get away from that stupid . . .

I, uh, gave him a stern dose of Ranch Justice and hurried back to the house.

Actually, I limped back to the house, but at a high rate of speed, while throwing barks over my shoulder.

It was pretty clear by then that I had chosen to jump the wrong guy, a Green Beret commando with five black belts in Turkey Karate.

He wanted Sally May's precious corn? Fine. He could be my guest. He could eat all the stupid corn he wanted—canned corn, creamed corn, corn on the cob, popcorn, I didn't care what kind of corn he ate, and I hoped he choked on it too.

The dumb bird. I had a claw mark for every piece of corn in the bucket. And bruised ribs. And a gash on the end of my nose.

I limped to the yard gate. There, I turned and looked back toward the corn bucket. All the turkeys had fled to the creek, even the cheating bully who had . . . even the bully cheater I had beaten to a pulp.

I paused at the yard gate and gave them one last withering barrage of barking. “Let that be a lesson to you! Just remember that you're nothing but a bunch of turkeys with skinny legs!”

Pretty impressive, huh? Yes sir, I got 'em told, and then I turned back to the . . .

A long shadow had fallen across the ground in front of me. It bore some resemblance to the form of a . . . well, of a human, perhaps of the female variety. My keen eyes scanned the shadow from left to right, moving from the top to the bottom, and there I noticed . . .

Hmmm, a pair of red roper boots, and these were not shadows but rather real actual boots. My eyes moved upward from the boots, following what appeared to be a pair of jeans that might very well have contained . . . legs.

My gaze paused at the alleged waist. There, I observed a pair of hands that seemed to be, uh, jammed upon the waistline, in a manner that suggested . . . oops.

I had seen such hands jammed upon such a waistline before, and those had never been what you would call . . . happy occasions, so to speak.

Suddenly my mouth felt dry. My tail began to sink between my legs and I noticed that my head was dropping to the angle that expressed . . . well, sorrow and regret, my deepest and most sincere sorrow and regret.

It was only then that I dared to roll my eyes upward, so as to confirm my suspicion that the figure looming above me belonged to . . .

Yikes, what a face! The mouth was as thin and stiff as a nail. The eyes were like two blasts from a blue norther and they sent shivers tumbling down my spinebone.

Ho boy. It appeared that we had us another, uh, breakdown in communications.

I tapped the last five inches of my tail on the ground, very slowly: tap, tap, tap. And I threw my last reserves of energy into gathering up a smile of utter sincerity, as if to say, “Hey, Sally May, how's it going?”

Gulp.

She didn't speak. Instead, her nostrils flared so much that, all of a sudden, they resembled the head of a rattlesnake, a merciless diamondback rattlesnake that was about to strike.

I felt my body sinking to the ground. With luck, I would sink to a depth of about six feet and then pull the hole in behind me.

This was serious, I could tell. But what had I done? My mind raced back over the events of the past two weeks and came up with . . . nothing. Nothing but hard work and the purest of intentions.

Sincerity. Courtesy, kindness, obedience, reverence.

Maybe she had the wrong dog, a simple case of, uh, mistaken identity.

A terrible silence loomed between us, like a poisonous yellow cloud of sulphurous sulphur. At last she spoke.

“You . . . you . . . you nincompoop! It's taken me two weeks to get those turkeys to come up to feed. Finally they came out of the brush and what did you do?
You ran right through the middle of them and scared them away!
”

Yes, but they were eating your . . .

“Do you think we need to be protected from our wildlife? No, you bonehead, we enjoy WATCHING the wildlife, because they're pretty and they're majestic, and I like pretty things and . . .”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “You are so dumb, SO DUMB! I can't believe you'd do this to me. We buy you dog food and give you a nice home, and this is the thanks we get.”

She glared down at me, looked away, muttered something under her breath, and glared down at me again.

“Protecting us from the wild turkeys! You . . . I just . . . sometimes I . . . you're the . . . ohhhhhhh!” She stamped her foot and bent down so that her face was only inches away from mine. “Listen, buster, if you ever chase my turkeys again . . .”

I stopped breathing and waited to hear the next blast of threats, but nothing came. Instead . . . footsteps? Loud footsteps?

Someone was running toward us. Sally May tore her gaze away from me, and I seized the oppor­tunity to vanish into the shrubberies beneath her living room window.

I thought I was all alone, but imagine my surprise when I saw a grinning face right there beside me. It belonged to Pete.

“Why you little pest, you led me right into a trap!”

“Now Hankie, don't be bitter. It served you right for running me up a tree.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I'm fixing to do worse than that, Kitty.”

“Ah, ah, ah. Better not, Hankie. If you so much as raise your voice at me, I'll cry and squeal and go limping over to Sally May, and you know the rest.”

He was smirking and batting his eyes, and I could hardly contain my desire to smash him up like . . . I don't know what. China in a bull shop, I suppose.

“Are you trying to threaten me, Pete?”

“Um-hm. Is it working?”

“Ha. Threats never work on me, Kitty, but it just happens that I'm too busy to give you your daily thrashing, so you lucked out.”

“Whatever works, Hankie.”

Having disposed of the cat with my slashing wit, I turned my attention toward whomever or whatever had made the loud footsteps I had heard.

It was Loper.

Gulp. My goose appeared to be cooked.

Chapter Eleven: Beulah Is Kidnapped by a Cannibal!

I
could hear Loper and Sally May talking in low voices. Now and then my name came up.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Pete. He was bathing his left front paw with a long pink tongue, and every time my name was mentioned, he gave me a wink and a smile.

I was in deep trouble, fellers, and the cat was loving every minute of it.

Slim and Billy joined the Kangaroo Court. Oh yes, and the bird dog was there too. It was sounding worse by the minute. In sheer desperation, I began digging. If they talked long enough, maybe I could dig a tunnel . . .

“Hank! Come here.” That was Loper's voice.

They had all turned and were looking toward my . . . what I had supposed was my hiding place. Gulp.

I shot a glance at Kitty-Kitty. “Bye, Hankie. I'll always remember the good times we had together.”

“Hank, come here!”

Well, it appeared that I had come to the end of my road. I'd had a good life. I rose from the shrub­beries and crept out, a picture of shame and disgrace. I felt their eyes on me as I slinked over to Loper and fell down at his feet.

HUH?

He bent down and rubbed me on the ears and said—you won't believe this, I sure didn't—and he said, “Good dog, Hank. Good dog.”

I gazed up at the circle of faces and . . . my goodness, they were all smiling! What the . . .

Sally May knelt down and took my head in her hands and began stroking my ears. “Hank, I'm sorry I was hateful to you, but I didn't see the coyote.”

Coyote?

Loper gave me a scratch on the head. “Yeah, if old Hank hadn't come charging out when he did, that coyote would have had himself a turkey dinner. Good dog, Hank.”

Ohhhhh, the coyote. Yes, of course, the, uh, sneaking murderous coyote who had tried to tamper with our precious turkey wildlifes.

I looked around the circle of smiling faces, whapped my tail on the ground, and gave them my biggest cowdog smile.

Just then Plato came bounding up. “By golly, Hank, that was really something, the way you took after that coyote. And he was a big rascal too. I don't know how you did that, Hank.”

I tried to appear humble. “Oh, it was no big deal, just part of my job. Some of us point quail and some of us beat up coyotes.”

“No kidding? You beat him up? I wasn't close enough to see the whole thing.”

“Oh yeah, we had quite a scuffle.” I pointed to the scratch on my nose. “He landed a few lucky punches but I pretty well thrashed him. I don't think he'll be back for a while.”

“What a guy! And I guess you weren't even scared, huh?”

I couldn't help chuckling. “Scared, of one huge enormous coyote? Nah. It was just a routine call.”

“Wow.”

Just then, I noticed that the conversation above me had stopped. Billy had turned around and was looking off toward the creek.

“She's not in the pickup. I don't know where she could be. Beulah! Here, gal.”

Plato and I traded glances. Then Slim said, “You don't reckon she went down to the creek to get a drink, do you?”

Billy shook his head. “Boy, I hope not. She's no fightin' dog and that coyote . . . boys, I think we'd better find my collie.”

“Let's take these two dogs. They can pick up the scent.”

HUH?

Plato and I happened to be looking at each other at that very moment. I noticed that his eyes crossed and his jaw dropped several inches. Perhaps mine did too. I mean, I'd already whipped my coyotes for the day and . . .

The men headed south toward the creek. “Come on, dogs! Out front. Get those noses to the ground. Find Beulah. Find the coyote.”

Plato was the first to speak. “Hank, there's something I must tell you.”

“Right, and there's something I'd like to mention to you, Plato. You see . . .”

“Come on dogs, let's go!”

Gulp.

It appeared that we had been summoned for active duty. I took the lead and loped out into that grassy flat just south of the house. Plato came along behind. We spread out in front of the men, put our noses to the ground, and worked our way down toward the creek bottom.

I could hear Plato talking as he sniffed for scent. “There's quail. There's rabbit. Cow. Raccoon. How about it, Hank, are you coming up with anything? Hank, I must tell you that my nose is very specific to quail, very specific, and I'm not sure that it will pick up a coyote.”

“Quit yapping. That might help.”

“Hank, I'm serious about this. I just don't think my equipment will work on coyotes, I really don't, so what I'm saying is that you might need to . . .” All at once he came to a dead stop. “Oh my gosh, Hank, here it is!”

I trotted over to him, put my nose to the ground, and checked it out. Sure enough, there it was: that peculiar, distinctively wild smell of a coyote. Just a whiff of it caused the hair on my back to stand up. It brought back many unpleasant memories.

I saw a look of pure terror in Plato's eyes. “What are we going to do, Hank?”

I swallowed hard. “We're going to follow it, what do you think?”

“Hank, I can't do this! I'm a bird dog and coyotes just . . . I don't have any experience with . . . listen, Hank, coyotes scare me to death and I just can't handle this!”

I studied his face for a long time. Here was a guy I had disliked for years. I had always thought of him as a nuisance and a pest. He had stolen my girlfriend away from me. Now, I had the opportunity to laugh in his face and call him a coward.

But I didn't.

“Plato, let me tell you something. I'm just as scared of coyotes as you are. Being scared of coyotes is no disgrace.”

His eyes turned into perfect circles. “Hank, no! I thought you said . . .”

“Never mind what I said. Here's the deal. Beulah needs our help.”

“Hank, I know she does, but I just can't . . .”

“Hush. Your nose is about five times better than mine. We need your nose to find her. You find her and leave the coyote work to me.”

He stared at me for a long time. “I thought you said you were scared of coyotes.”

“I am. Any dog with a lick of sense ought to be scared of those guys. But sometimes we have to put duty ahead of our fears. And even our ambitions.”

He took a deep breath. “You're right, Hank. I'm sorry I fell apart. I'll give it my best shot.”

“That's all any of us can do, pardner.”

He started away from me but stopped. “Oh, and thanks for what you said about my nose. I know that being a bird dog isn't all that great, but I'm proud of what I do.”

“You've got a great nose, Plato. I watched you. You're a heck of a fine quail dog.”

He beamed with pride. “Thanks, Hank. Thanks a whole bunch. I'll try to do my part.”

“You'll do fine. Let's go find Beulah.”

Our little conversation seemed to have brought him new reserves of courage. Too bad it didn't help me. My legs were shaking so badly that I thought I might fall over at any moment. Fortunately, Plato didn't notice.

He went charging into the tall grass and brush along the creek—nose to the ground and tail sticking straight out. He was a study in total concentration. His entire body seemed to be taking orders from his nose.

Me? To tell you the truth, I couldn't smell much of anything except ragweed, so it was a good thing we had Plato and his world-class nose out front and working the trail.

He really did have a great nose, and you know what? Admitting it didn't hurt as much as I'd thought.

I could see that Plato was locked onto the trail of something. His body was bunched up and he had slowed to stealthy walk. Every part of him had shifted into slow motion except his nose, and it was out front, low to the ground, and working like a vacuum sweeper.

“What do you say, Plato?”

“Hank, I think we're getting close to something. I'm getting a strong reading on coyote, real strong. How about you?”

“Uh, the same, Plato, you bet.”

“Say, those guys really smell bad, don't they?”

“If you think they smell bad, wait until you see their manners.”

He gave a nervous laugh, then . . . he froze. “Hank, I think this is it. In those bushes, straight ahead.”

A shiver of dread went through my body, but before I could think about it, I trotted past him and took over the Forward Position.

“Nice work, pal. I guess it's time for the Marines to take over. We'll see you after playtime.”

“Good luck, Hank.”

I moved toward the clump of bushes. My teeth were chattering so badly, I had to clamp my jaws shut. Five feet. Four feet. Three feet. Two, one.

I could smell him now, that wild musky smell that struck terror in the heart of a dog. I parted the bushes with my nose and . . .

There he was.