“I think it was me.”

  I looked up at the sky and heaved a sigh. “Drover, there was a time, not so very long ago, when the mention of such a crime would have gotten my full attention. I would have jumped right into the middle of the case and begun a thorough investigation.

  “But now, because of my own foolish mistakes, I’ve lost my job and therefore my authority to press an investigation. I suggest you take your repeat to Port . . . your report to Pete, that is, and let him handle it. He’s in charge now.”

  “Oh my gosh!”

  “Well said, Drover. I think we both know what’ll come of this.”

  “Yeah, the chicken’ll never get her heart back and the ranch’ll go to pot.”

  “Exactly. But it can’t be helped, Drover. I’m afraid that I’m leaving this old ranch in quite a mess.”

  “Leaving!”

  “Yes, Drover, I’m leaving. There’s nothing left for me here except the sad memory of how things used to be, and that is nothing but a sad memory. I have failed my ranch, my hundreds of friends, my profession, myself. I’ll spend the rest of my days wandering Life’s ditches and gutters—a dog without a home.”

  “Boy, that’s tough,” he said, as he gnawed at a flea on his left flank. “If you put your job up in that bet, what did Pete put up against it?”

  “I . . . that’s a foolish question, Drover. Obvi­ously, since I risked something dear and precious to me, the cat put up something of equal worth.”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t have anything of equal worth.”

  “Of course he does.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as . . . well, he . . . that is . . . what are you driving at, Drover? Are you suggesting that I might have been suckered into a stupid bet?”

  “I wondered.”

  “Because if that’s what you’re suggesting, let me intrude into your little world of fantasy and point out . . .” I began pacing, as I often do to stimulate my thought processes. “Your whole house is an argument of cards, Drover, and all I have to do to send it tumbling down is to remove one single card.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve got a feeling that it’s a joker.”

  Suddenly I stopped pacing and whirled around. “Because, Drover, there was a joker in the deck.”

  “I knew it.”

  “Don’t you see what’s happened here? It was a rigged game, Drover, a phony bet, a put-up deal. You thought Pete had won it fair and square, but what you overlooked was the obvious fact that HE CHEATED!”

  “I think that’s what I was driving at.”

  “Maybe you were droving, Driver, but you ran out of gas before you solved the mystery.”

  “My name’s Drover.”

  “Exactly. You were close, Drover, and I know perfectly well what your name is and don’t interrupt my presentation again, but not close enough. For you see, Pete risked nothing in our wager and therefore the entire bet is cancelled. And as of this moment, I am reclaiming my title as Head of Ranch Security.”

  “Boy, that’s a relief.”

  “Exactly. And my first action will be to throw all units into the investigation of this gruesome murder you witnessed with your own eyes.”

  “Either that or I dreamed it.”

  “And my second action will be to settle all accounts with Pete the Barncat, who has become a minutes to society. Come on, Drover, to the chicken house!”

  And with that, we went streaking to the chicken house to investigate one of the most chilling crimes I had encountered in my whole career.

  Chapter Seven: Bloody Writing on the Wall

  We reached the chicken house only seconds after I had sounded the alarm.

  The first thing we did upon reaching the scene of the crime was to plow into the middle of seven hens who were loitering outside. They were pecking around in the dirt and clucking to each other and performing the usual absurd rituals you expect to find among chickens, who are stupid beyond belief.

  Since they were blocking our path, we seized the opportunity to mix pleasure with business. We just by George bulldozed ’em and sent ’em squawking in all directions.

  I love doing that.

  We sent them pecking . . . eh, packing, that is, and once again I experienced that feeling of exhilaration and well-being and mental health and so forth. That done, we plunged into the murder house and went to work.

  As my eyes adjusted to the gloomy light, I did a visual sweep of the walls and ceiling, using my photogenic memory to record even the smallest details.

  “Well, Drover, do you notice anything unusual?”

  “Yeah, it stinks in here.”

  “Exactly. And does that tell you anything?”

  “I’m glad we’re not chickens.”

  I gave him a stern glare. “Let’s not dwell upon the obvious. We’re looking for clues, the tiny details that form the signature of the criminal.”

  “Well, let’s see. Wait, hold it! What’s that over there?”

  I rushed “over there,” following the angle of Drover’s nose. It led me to the west wall, in the very gloomiest corner of the room. There, my eyes fell upon some mysterious form of writing.

  “This is some mysterious form of writing, Drover.”

  “Yeah, and it’s written in red! Could it be . . .”

  “I’ll take it from here Drover. Red writing. Does that ring any bells with you?”

  He lifted one ear. “Not really.”

  “Here’s a hint: Grandma’s house.”

  “Uh . . . dinner bell?”

  “Forget the bells, Drover, and concentrate on the hints. Here’s another one: wolf.”

  “Arf?”

  “No.”

  “Bow wow?”

  “Wolf, the animal, a ferocious beast waiting to eat someone.”

  “Oh. Well, let’s see here. What was the first thing you said?”

  “Red writing.”

  The huge blank of his face suddenly filled with signs of recognition. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it! Little Red . . . oh my gosh, you don’t think the killer was Little Red Writing Hood, do you?”

  “Yes, Drover, either Little Write Redding Hood or someone in her disguise. She left a clue behind, as they always do, never dreaming that we would put ‘red’ and ‘writing’ together and come up with her true identity.”

  “What made her do such an awful thing?”

  “We don’t have the answer to that one yet, but I have an idea that it’s just a matter of time until we come up with a motive.”

  “It makes me sad.”

  “Snap out of it, Drover, because there’s still more to come. The mysterious message was written in red, correct?”

  “Yeah, I already said that.”

  “But I said it first.”

  “But I saw it first.”

  “But I entered the chicken house first.”

  “But I was the first one up this morning.”

  “Yes, Drover, but I never went to bed, so your claim to being the first one up just doesn’t hold water.”

  Suddenly, his eyes popped open. “Oh my gosh, speaking of water, I’ve got to GO!”

  “We’re in the middle of a very important investigation.”

  “Yeah, but we’re fixing to be in the middle of a flood.” He was hopping up and down and biting his lip.

  “Very well, Drover, you may be excused, but this will have to go into your record.”

  He scrambled out the door. I waited inside, tapping my toe and counting off the seconds. I hate wasting time. He returned moments later, wearing a big smile.

  “I’m ready for anything now.”

  “Where were we?”

  “Let’s see. I was the first one up this morning.”

  “No, you weren’t, and why were we talking about that in the first place?”

  “Well, let’s see.” He thought. I waited. “I don’t remember. Something about water.”

  “Yes, of course. Water is very important to all life on earth. Without water, there would be no watermelons and . . . I’ve lost my train of thought.”

  “I’ve always wanted to ride in a caboose.”

  “Wait, I’ve got it. We were discussing the mysterious red writing, and I was about to point out a very important detail that escaped your attention.”

  “You mean that it might have been written in blood?”

  I narrowed my eyes and glared at the runt. “Who’s in charge of this investigation, you or me?”

  “Well, you, I guess.”

  “That’s correct. I am in charge of the investiga­tion, and if there are any new and startling revela­tions to be made, I will be the one to make them. Is that clear?”

  “Okay, but I was the first one up this morning.”

  “Fine. You were the first one up, and now you will be the first one to shut your little trap while I reveal that this mysterious message on the wall was probably written in BLOOD.”

  “Oh my gosh!”

  “Yes indeed. Now we are only one step away from wrapping this case up. The only question left unanswered is, what does the mysterious mes­sage say?

  “I will now move closer to the wall and try to uncrypt and decipher the message.”

  I moved closer to the wall and studied the message. It appeared to consist of a single word.

  “All right, Drover, stand by. The first letter is A.”

  “Oh, that’s awful!”

  “The second letter appears to be an L.”

  “Okay, I got it, Hank. That makes A-L.”

  “Exactly. The third letter is F, followed by an R.”

  “A-L-F-R. That doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “Patience, son. The next letter is an E. And, stand by, the final letter is a D. There we are, Drover. Now read them all back to me.”

  “A-L-F-R-E-D.”

  “There must be some mistake. That doesn’t spell Little Red Writing Hood.”

  “Maybe she couldn’t spell.”

  “Very possible, Drover.”

  “Wait! It sounds kind of like . . . Alfred . . . doesn’t it?”

  “Alfred?”

  “Little Alfred?”

  “HUH?” I whirled around and took a closer look at the . . . “Drover, if you had studied the clues more carefully, you would have realized that this word was written in RED CRAYON, not blood.”

  “Oh my gosh, it’s getting worse and worse! You think Little Alfred was the killer?”

  “No.”

  “The chicken bled crayon instead of blood?”

  “No.”

  “I’m all confused.”

  “Yes.” I paced back and forth in front of him. “Drover, in your report of the ghastly murder, you mentioned that the killer had cut up the chicken’s heart and poured the pieces out on the ground. Do you see any signs of a chicken heart?”

  “Well . . . not really.”

  “Your report went on to say that ‘blood was everywhere,’ to use your exact words. Do you see any signs of blood?”

  “Well . . .”

  “There is no blood, Drover, and there are no pieces of a chicken’s heart. That means there was no murder. It means that Little Alfred wrote his name on the chicken house wall with a red crayon. It means that you have led us on a fool’s errand.”

  “Well, I’ll be derned. I sure thought . . . you don’t reckon I dreamed all that, do you?”

  I stopped pacing and stabbed him with a gaze of solid steel. “I reckon you did, you dunce. I had just told you that I was pouring my heart out to you.”

  “Oh, is that what it was?”

  “Yes. But instead of listening to a friend in need, you concocted an outrageous story about blood and murder.”

  “I knew it had something to do with hearts.”

  “Drover, you have just brought the Security Division to its lowest point in history. Do you realize that if someone had been watching us for the past half hour, he might very well think that we are a couple of fools?”

  “Boy, that’s wrong.”

  “Of course it is, but mere facts can lead to a false impression. Hence, you and I will take a vow of secrecy and swear never to reveal the deep, dark stupidity of what we’ve just done.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  I put my paw on his shoulder. “And remember, Drover. Even though it’s unpleasant to lie and cover up, we’re doing this for our own good.”

  “Yeah, and somebody had to do it.”

  “Exactly. Now we will sneak out of here and forget this ever happened and hope that no one was watching.”

  And with that, we backed out the door and erased the entire incident from the memory of the world.

  (NOTE: At this point in the story, I would appreciate it if you would remove this chapter from your book, since it contains very sensitive information that could damage the future work of the Security Division. Thanks.)

  Chapter Eight: The Healing Waters of Emerald Pond

  Once outside the chicken house, we made some fast tracks and got the heck away from there.

  It had suddenly occurred to me that if Sally May saw me coming out of the chicken house, or even standing close to it, she might leap to some false conclusions.

  I mean, on more than one occasion she had accused me of committing unthinkable crimes, against her chickens—such as eating them and/or their eggs.

  Crazy, huh? It’s common knowledge that cowdogs, and especially Heads of Ranch Security, NEVER eat chickens or suck eggs. I mean, we protect the stupid birds and their equally stupid eggs, so it would make no sense at all for us to turn right around and eat them—although I must admit that . . . hmm.

  What I mean is that all charges against me had been false and outrageous and unfair and unfoundered, but in the Security Business we must guard ourselves against even the slightest appearance of naughty behavior.

  And fellers, two dogs backing out of the chicken house in the middle of a normal work day might have been . . . I think you get the point. And so did I, which explains why I got away from there just as fast as I could travel.

  Well, we had dodged that particular bullet and made our way down to Emerald Pond—my own private name, by the way, for one of my very favorite spots on the ranch, the lovely green pool of water formed by the overflow of the septic tank.

  That investigation of the chicken house had pretty muchly worn me out and I still had a slight headache from my encounter with the corral fence and I was ready to dive into the warm embrace, so to speak, of Emerald Pond, whose waters are known to have curative and healing powers.

  I can also reveal that those same green waters can provide a dog with a very impressive “calling card,” you might say—a deep manly aroma that has been known to steal the hearts of the ladies and just by George sweep them off their feet.

  Pretty impressive, huh? And it’s MY pond.

  Well, I sprang right into the middle of Emerald Pond, filled my nostrils with its sweet perfume, rolled around, kicked my legs in the air, climbed out, and gave myself a good shake.

  Say, that little dip had left me feeling like a million bucks!

  Drover had watched all this from dry land.

  “Son, one of these days you’re going to realize what you’ve been missing.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I don’t like water.”

  “This isn’t just water. It’s tonic, a magic elixir that’s full of vitamins and minerals. I’d almost be willing to bet that if you stuck your stub tail into these waters, it would grow out to normal size.”

  “No fooling?”

  “Yup. It’s powerful stuff.”

  “But I kind of like my tail the way it is.”

  “Well, to each his own, Drover. If you’re happy with a chopped-off, deformed stub, I guess that’s all that matters.”

  “I never thought of it as deformed.”

  “Then forget I said anything about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your happiness is the most important thing.”

  “Thanks, Hank.”

  “And the fact that everyone else laughs at your ridiculous tail is irrevelent. Irreverent. Irreffluent.”

  “Irrelevant?”

  “I’ll speak for myself, Drover, but thanks anyway. The word is IRREFFLUENT.”

  “Okay. But do you really think my tail’s de­formed?”

  I sat down and scratched a troublesome spot just behind my left ear. “Are you asking for an honest answer or one that sugarcoats the truth?”

  “Whichever one makes my tail look better.”

  “All right, you have a magnificent stub of a tail.”

  “You’re just saying that so I won’t think it’s de­formed!”

  “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  “No,” he began to sniffle and cry, “I want a tail that the other dogs won’t laugh at! All my life I’ve wanted a tail that wasn’t handicapped! How can I ever find happiness with a deformed tail?”

  “That’s a tough question, son.”

  “I’m so miserable and unhappy! I hate my tail! Why can’t I have a normal tail like a normal dog? All I ever wanted to be was normal.”

  “Drover, your tail can be fixed.”

  “You really think so? You mean there’s hope?”

  “Son, the cure for your condition has been right here all along. You just haven’t used it.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Exactly. You must sit in Emerald Pond for two hours.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Sit with your tail under the healing waters for two hours and repeat these words over and over.”

  “What words?”

  “I haven’t said them yet.”

  “Oh.”

  “‘Lizards, spiders, warts and scales,

  Give this dog a normal tail.’”

  A smile bloomed on his face. “I think I can do it, Hank, and boy howdy, I’m sure excited!”