Funny, I hadn’t noticed the smell of his socks, but then I’d had my mind on other things.

  We went trooping out of the house, picked up Mister Look-at-the-Clouds at the yard gate, hooked the stock trailer onto Slim’s pickup, and pulled down to the corrals.

  Slim had kept up a young bay horse the night before. He caught him and led him into the saddle lot and threw a saddle on him. While he tightened the cinches, he talked out loud to himself.

  “If I have to rope that old bull, I might wish I’d taken a better horse. I’ve never roped anything big on this owl-headed thang, and there’s not much tellin’ what he might do.” He stopped and thought a moment. “In fact, I believe I’ll just . . . nah, it’s too hot to gather the horse pasture. We’ll do what needs to be done, won’t we, Button?”

  Little Alfred smiled. “I’ll wope that bull, if you’ll wet me.”

  Slim led the horse out the gate and latched it behind him. “I wish I could, son, ’cause roping bulls is sometimes hard on clothes and old men.”

  “I woped me a chicken today.”

  “I’ll bet you did. When it comes to slinging that twine, you’re a regular holy terrier.”

  Slim loaded his horse into the trailer. Little Alfred watched. “I wike to wope, and I’m pwetty good.”

  “That’s fine, Button, just keep a-throwin’ and keep a-learnin’. One of these days you’ll be as good with a rope as I am, and probably just as rich.”

  “Are you wich, Swim?”

  Slim hitched up his jeans and smiled. “Well now, I’m rich in the things that matter to me. I’m proud of who I am and what I do. To me, that’s rich. There’s a song that says just what I’m a-tryin’ to tell you, Button. Let’s see if I can remember how it goes.”

  I didn’t know old Slim could even carry a tune, but by George he did. Here’s how it went.

  Just Another Cowboy Day

  This morning at five I got out of bed,

  Boiled some coffee and toasted some bread.

  I pulled on the jeans I’d left throwed on the chair,

  And brushed all the roostertails out of my hair.

  My eyes was all soggy, I couldn’t see squat.

  I tripped on the dog on my way to the pot.

  I said to myself as I kicked him away,

  “It’s another cowboy day.”

  It’s another cowboy day

  Diggin’ them postholes and pitchin’ that hay.

  It’s another cowboy day,

  Just another cowboy day.

  I went to the mirror and stood there a while.

  The face starin’ back at me looked pretty wild.

  If eyes was like teeth, I could take out the red

  And soak ’em in Polident next to my bed.

  Old Arthur was hurtin’, my shoulder was sore.

  Sometimes I think I can’t take any more.

  I’ve left many times but always I stayed

  For another cowboy day.

  It’s another cowboy day

  Diggin’ them postholes and pitchin’ that hay.

  It’s another cowboy day,

  Just another cowboy day.

  I went to the barn and fed my old horse,

  Me and that rascal have been through the course.

  He ain’t all that good but he ain’t all that bad.

  Old Dunny’s the best friend that I’ve ever I had.

  Old Dunny and me, we cut through the breeze

  As morning was paintin’ the tops of the trees.

  “Oh Lord, give me more,” that’s all I could say,

  “Just another cowboy day.”

  It’s another cowboy day

  Diggin’ them postholes and pitchin’ that hay.

  It’s another cowboy day,

  Just another cowboy day.

  By the time Slim finished the song, Little Alfred was playing bulldozer in the dirt with a piece of wood. “Well Button, does that make any sense to you?”

  “Nope, but it’s a pwetty song.”

  Slim smiled. “Sometimes it don’t make much sense to me either. Well, load up. We’ve got things to do and places to go.”

  “Can I wide in the back wiff my doggies?”

  Slim frowned. “Why don’t you ride up front with me? Your ma would feel better if you did. And you never can tell, I might need some help drivin’.”

  “Can Hankie and Dwover wide up fwont too?”

  “Now Button, we don’t need to be spoilin’ them dogs. Next thing you know, they’ll think they’ve got a constitutional right . . .”

  “Pweeze, Swim, just this once.”

  Slim shook his head and moved his lips. “Oh, all right, but just this once.”

  “Yippee! Come on, doggies, we get to wide in the fwont!”

  The three of us made a dash for the pickup, while Slim came along behind, talking to himself.

  “I know better than to start this foolishness. Once you spoil a ranch dog, he ain’t worth shootin’ from then on. Course, them two dogs was born worthless, but we ain’t going to make a habit of this ridin’ in front, you hear what I’m sayin’? Just this once.”

  “Okay, Swim.”

  Slim opened the door and the three of us climbed up on the seat. At the mailbox, Slim stopped and looked both ways before he pulled onto the caliche road.

  He wrinkled up his nose. “Boy, this pickup sure stinks. If that’s my socks again, I’m going to burn them thangs.”

  We turned onto the road and off we went to the pasture. If I had known what was waiting for us up there, I might had chosen to stay at home.

  Chapter Seven: We Meet the Horrible Hairy Hooking Bull

  There were two roads that led up to the north pasture. One went straight north through the middle pasture, and the other looped around to the west.

  The one that looped around to the west and followed the canyon pasture fence was the longer of the two, which naturally meant that the other was the shorter of the two, right? It was shorter but you had to open two gates to get to the north pasture.

  Slim took the long route so’s he could get by without having to stop, get out, open the gate, get back in, drive through, get out again, shut the gate, get back in, and drive on. You see, Little Alfred wasn’t quite big and stout enough to open and shut pasture gates, and while Slim was old enough and stout enough, he had a small lazy streak and a weakness for using cattle guards instead of gates.

  So we took the long route up to the north pasture. As you will soon see, this will become a crucial piece of information in the unfolding drama of The Hooking Bull. If Little Alfred had been faced with two pasture gates to open . . . well, you’ll find out soon enough.

  As soon as we turned off the main road, Little Alfred started pestering Slim to let him drive the pickup. Slim growled and grumbled about the hazards of doing such things, but since he’d been the one who’d brought the subject up in the first place, he didn’t have much chance of winning that argument.

  So the boy crawled over in his lap and took the steering wheel in both hands. I’ll admit this made me nervous. It reminded me of the time I’d gone on a spaceship ride with the little stinkpot. I won’t say that his driving had caused that crash, but I won’t say that it didn’t either.

  But this time he did all right, kept the pickup mostly in the tracks without too much wandering around in the pasture. After he’d steered a while, with Slim running the gas and the brake, he decided he needed to handle that department too, so Slim gave him a tryout, running the gas and brakes.

  First time he hit the brake pedal, me and Drover got ourselves introduced to the dashboard. After that, he didn’t punch it so hard, but we dogs took no chances. We were braced and welded against the back of that seat.

  Slim let him drive all the way up to the cattle guard that led into the north pasture and then he took the controls back, saying, “Button, that cattle guard’s about as wide as it needs to be, and I’ll take ’er from here.”

  When we crossed the cattle guard, Slim scanned the horizon and started talking to himself. “Now let’s get organized here. This time of day in the summer, them cattle are most likely to be at the windmill. We’ll check there first for that bull.”

  He threw the gearshift up into Grandma Low and we started down a washed-out trail that led into a ravine. When we reached the bottom, we saw the windmill up ahead. Sure enough, fifty or sixty cows and calves were lazing around the water tank.

  “There he is,” said Slim in a low voice, “and look at the size of that feller! That, boys, is a lot of bull.”

  I followed the direction of his gaze and . . . hmm, yes, that was a big bull, all right, with a nasty hump in his back and a wide head like a catfish and a mean-looking set of horns.

  Drover was staring at the clouds and hadn’t seen the bull yet.

  “You know, Drover, if Slim needs any help on this assignment, it might be a good time to let you get some experience.”

  “Really?”

  “There’s no substitute for experience, son, and I know that I have a tendency to hog all the excite­ment. Yes, by George, we’ll just let you solo on this one.”

  “Gosh, thanks, Hank. Are you sure I can handle it?”

  “Uh, well, that’s the whole idea behind hands-on training, Drover, finding answers to those little questions. And yes, I’m confident that you will learn a great deal from this experience.”

  “Oh boy, I can hardly wait. Just bark at him?”

  “Oh yeah, bark at him and maybe bite him on the nose if he tries to attack.”

  His eyes went blank. “Attack? What kind of cow is this?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly a cow, Drover, more of a bull than a cow.”

  “A bull?”

  “That’s correct, just an ordinary garden variety of bull who happens to be in the wrong pasture and has forgotten how to get back home. Nothing special, in other words.”

  All at once the runt stopped looking at the clouds and squinted his eyes at the cattle in front of us. I heard him gulp.

  “That wouldn’t be him right over there, would it? With the hump in his back and the big horns?”

  “Don’t worry about the hump, son. Camels have two humps and they’re the friendliest animals you ever saw. The hump means nothing, almost nothing at all.”

  “Yeah, but look at those horns!”

  “Once again, the horns mean almost nothing. The idea is to stay out of the way of the horns. I noticed that his eyes had crossed. “Drover, something’s wrong with your eyes.”

  “No, it’s my leg. It’s killing me.”

  “What I’m looking at is not your leg, unless you’ve moved it up around your nose.”

  “No, it hurts to move it. Just the least little movement brings on this terrible pain. Maybe I’d better sit this one out, Hank.”

  “Forget that, son. You’re fixing to make a solo run.”

  “Oh, my leg!”

  By this time Slim had unloaded his horse and led him up to the pickup. He pulled all his cinches down tight.

  “Button, I’m going to try to drive that bull back where he belongs. If he’ll drive, I’ll take him up that hill and through that gate yonder, and I’ll be back in ten minutes. While I’m gone, I want you to stay in the pickup, you hear?”

  The boy nodded.

  “’Cause if you get out and go to foolin’ around with these baby calves, some of those mommas are liable to think you’re a prowlin’ coyote instead of Sally May’s darlin’ child, and one of ’em might try to get into your pocket.”

  The boy nodded.

  “Now,” Slim pressed his lips together, “if the bull don’t want to cooperate, I may have to take more drastic measures, such as put my nylon around his horns and drag him into the trailer. It could get a little western, so keep out of the way.”

  “Okay, Swim. But I don’t want you to wope the bull.”

  “Neither do I, Button, but that’s up to him. I’ll take Hank with me.”

  HUH?

  I, uh, eased down on the floorboard and tried to make myself invisible. Maybe if I flattened myself on the floor, he might think . . .

  “Hank, come on. I may need you to put some bite on that bull’s nose.”

  At that moment, Drover spoke. “I think Slim wants you for something.”

  “No, I think he was calling you.”

  “No, he said ‘Hank,’ I’m almost sure he did, and my name’s Drover, so I guess he decided to put in the first string, and I’ll just have to sit this one out.”

  “I’ll bet that breaks your heart.”

  “Yeah, I was sure looking forward to going a round or two with that old bull.”

  “Hank! Get out of that pickup, let’s go.”

  I pushed myself up and, hmm, noticed that my legs were trembling. “All right, you little weasel, I’ll do your dirty work for you, but this will go in my report—every word of it.”

  “Oh rats, but I’ll bark from here, Hank. Maybe that’ll help.”

  “Thanks a lot, Drover.”

  “Oh, it was the least I could do.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that, you little . . .”

  It seems that Slim got impatient and reached in and grabbed me by the tail and hauled me outside, and that really wasn’t necessary, I’d only wanted to take care of a little business with Drover and . . .

  Slim stepped into the saddle and pulled his hat down. Then he glanced down at me. “You ready for this, pooch? Let’s go exercise that old bull.”

  He rode forward through the herd. The cattle stared at him with big stupid eyes and parted to let him through. I fell in behind the horse. My enthusiasm for this project was, well, running at a fairly low level, mainly because my involvement was depriving Drover of valuable, much needed experience.

  Slim maneuvered his horse around until only one animal stood in his path. The bull’s ears were cocked and he was watching the horse’s every move.

  “Hyah, go on, bull! Get on out of here!”

  The bull sensed that he had been cut off from the herd. He moved to the right and Slim cut him off. He moved to the left and Slim turned him back again. The bull shook his head and stood his ground.

  Slim took down his catch rope, pulled the loop down to where it was just a knot, and let out about seven feet of slack. Then he flipped the rope so that the knot popped Mr. Bull on the nose.

  WHAP!

  That got his attention! He whirled around and started trotting away from the herd. Well, that had been easy enough, and I figgered this might be a good time for me to install my Anti-Bull Procedures. Barking at the top of my lungs, I rushed past the horse and sank my teeth into the left rear hock of this large but cowardly . . .

  One detail a guy tends to forget about these bulls is that, while they’re very large and appear to be slow and dim-witted, they’re actually none of those things except large. I mean, it’s hard to believe that a bull weighing in at 1,300 or 1,400 pounds can turn on a dime and give you the change.

  But they can. And he did.

  And I sure wasn’t expecting him to do that. And I don’t think I’ll tell you what happened next.

  Chapter Eight: What Happened Next

  Hey, I had worked bulls before. I knew they were capable of inflicting big damage if they got half a chance, but I also knew that once you get a bull turned and running off in the right direction, 97.4 percent of the time he’ll keep going and won’t turn to fight.

  So I played the percentages, right? When the numbers are on your side, everything’s supposed to turn out just fine, and what more can a dog do?

  Okay, I’ll tell you what happened after I bit that stupid bull on the heels, but I’m not proud of it and there’s no reason for blabbing it all over the country.

  I sank my teeth into his left hock, little suspecting that he might kick me into a low polar orbit with the right one, and never dreaming that he could do it in the blink of an eye. But he derned sure did.

  Kicked me dead-center in the rib cage, and I thought I had been run over by a large truck. All at once I saw red checkers and skyrockets exploding behind my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move.

  I don’t know how far I flew through the air, but it wasn’t far enough. I landed nose-first in the side of a sandhill. I lay there on the ground, gasping for breath and trying to restart my heart, when I began to realize that this killer hooking bull wasn’t finished with me.

  It wasn’t enough that he’d broken the Law of Averages and taken a really cheap shot and kicked the absolute stuffing out of me. No, he wanted some more, and HERE HE CAME!

  Any bull that would beat up on a handicapped dog is beneath contempt, but he loaded me up on his horns and pitched me into the Ozone Layer of the atmosphere.

  I landed in an awkward heap in the middle of a sagebrush, and I remember with perfect clarity the thought that came to my mind when I hit: “Enough of this nonsense, let’s go to the house!”

  But the drama was just beginning, as it turned out. Slim popped the bull again and tried to turn him back to the northeast, but Mr. Bull seemed to be enjoying this, and instead of running away, he dropped his head and charged Slim’s horse.

  They got out of the way just in time. Slim rode a short distance away and started building a loop in his rope. His eyes had settled into a tight squint and the muscles in his jaws were working.

  “You all right, Hankie?”

  Arg, gasp, urg, wheeze, no, not really.

  “Get up and let’s teach this old general who’s boss around here.”

  Um, no thanks. I already knew who was boss.

  Slim shook out his loop and held it shoulderhigh. He moved his horse toward the bull and tried to coax him into running. And I knew why he tried to do that. You see, it’s much easier to rope an animal that’s running away from you than to rope one that’s facing you.