“Hank, come back here!”

  Forget that, Charlie.

  I ran and he chased. We made a lap around the pickup and trailer, and he kept coming, so I squirted myself under the pickup—as any normal, healthy American dog would have done.

  I thought that might be the end of it, but then I saw his awful grinning face full of sharp teeth. “Hi, puppy, how’d you like to go to town with old Slim? We’ll have some fun.”

  We would NOT have some fun, because I had no intention of…

  What a cheap trick! He reached out and grabbed a hind leg before I could take countermeasures. He dragged me out of my safe haven and pitched me into the cab of the pickup.

  And Drover? He vanished, I mean like a puff of smoke in the wind. I don’t know how he does that, the little weasel, but the bottom line was that I had been shanghaied and pressed into service.

  And off we went on some crazy mission. I went straight to the shotgun side of the pickup seat, as far away from Slim as I could get, and turned my back on him. He had kidnapped me against my will, so I would give him a good and proper SHUNNING. Yes sir, he would get none of my usual…

  “You want some beef jerky?”

  …warmth and charm. Beef jerky? Absolutely not! Did he think I could be bribed and bought off with…sniff sniff…actually, it smelled pretty good. I mean, a guy forgets how good beef jerky smells in the morning.

  He made his own jerky, you know, and soaked the strips of beef in a concoction made of liquid smoke, roostershire sauce, and exotic spices. In a pickup cab that usually smelled of gasoline and dirty socks, it released a powerful…

  Okay, I would resume diplomatic relations just enough to end the Shunning Procedure. I turned away from the window and slurped at him…looked at him, that is, and licked my chops.

  He held something in his right hand. It was brownish-red and resembled a dried mouse carcass, but that was just the normal appearance of his jerky. It never looked as good as it slurped…as good as it tasted.

  I, uh, scooted closer to him and found my thoughts drifting back to happier times. He really wasn’t such a bad guy. I mean, morning had never been his best time of day, and let’s be fair, sometimes I did things that brought out the crabby side of his Inner Bean, such as…well, waking him up with a fire alarm when the house wasn’t actually on fire.

  And that business with the toilet paper? Bad idea, poor judgment, and I was feeling pretty bad about it.

  I edged closer. He held the jerky under my slurp…under my nose and moved it up and down. As if by magic, my nose followed —up and down, around and around.

  He chuckled. He was enjoying this and in a weird sort of way, so was I, but didn’t we need to reach some kind of resolution? And wasn’t he supposed to be driving? When you’re moving down a country road in a pickup and pulling a gooseneck trailer, somebody ought to be…

  Good grief, we were heading toward the ditch! I barked. He turned his eyes back to the road and jerked the wheel just in time to miss the only tree within two miles.

  I struck like a bolt of lightning and bagged the jerky.

  Hee hee!

  He gave me a sour look. “Hey, we were supposed to share that.”

  Yeah, well, tough toenails. Don’t give your dog more temptation than he can handle.

  Great stuff! Slim wasn’t chef enough to boil an egg, but the guy had a talent for making jerky. It was a little chewy, but hey, if you can’t handle beef jerky, you’re not a Texas dog. Move to California and eat oatmeal.

  Fellers, I put it away, chewed it up and rammed it down the pipe. In spite of himself, old Slim seemed pleased. “Well, I guess you liked it.”

  Oh yes, but the important thing was that the experience had cemented our relationship, taken it to a new and higher level. All the morning’s strife and bitterness just melted away. I dived into his lap and gave him three Bonus Licks on the face.

  “Quit.”

  Hey, we were pals again!

  We reached the blacktop highway, turned right, and headed towards town at seventy miles an hour. I remained in his lap and helped him drive until we rolled past the city limits sign. There, he invited me to move.

  “We’re in the Big City now and I’d better pay attention to business.” We coasted past Waterhole 83 and his eyes scanned an expanse of brown grass east of the highway. “Well, there they are.”

  Who? I studied the field of grass up ahead. Oh, maybe this was the golf course and…what were we looking for? Tumbleweeds and hogs? Yes, there they were, I saw them, only…wait, not hogs, ten head of steers. Forget the tumbleweeds.

  Maybe you had forgotten some of the details of this assignment. Not me. We had come on a mission to do something with ten head of steers that had strayed from a wheat field east of town.

  “And there’s Bobby.”

  Who? He seemed to be looking toward a white pickup that was pulling a green 16-foot bumper-hitch stock trailer. (It’s kind of amazing that a dog would notice all this stuff, isn’t it?) We left the highway, crossed the ditch, and drove out on the golf course, toward the pickup.

  A man wearing a uniform and a felt hat got out. Okay, Chief Deputy Kile. Had you forgotten? Not me. He was the one who had started all of this with a phone call. You need to pay attention.

  Slim shut off the motor and we got out. Slim looked up at the cloudy sky. “Freezing mist. That ain’t good.” We walked over to the deputy who was writing in some kind of book. Slim said, “Morning.”

  The deputy didn’t look up. “Morning.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking notes.”

  “On what?”

  “This case. I talked to Judge McKinley this morning. He thinks he can work out a plea deal with the county attorney and get you off with ten years in prison. That’s with good behavior. If you mouth off, like you normally do, it’ll be thirty years of busting rock for Uncle Bud.”

  Slim gave his head a sad shake. “Bobby, most of the law enforcement officers in this county work day and night to build a good reputation. Then you show up and it all goes to blazes. You ain’t funny, so don’t even try.”

  Deputy Kile cackled and put away his writing pad. “Glad you could come. Beautiful day. What are you going to do with these steers?”

  That was the Big Question that hung over us, and you don’t know the answer. I know the answer but I’m not going to tell you, so you’d better keep reading.

  Chapter Nine: This Is Very Bad

  Okay, there we were, standing out in the freezing drizzle on the Twitchell marsupial golf course. The municipal golf course, let us say. Mun-i-ci-pal. It’s a four-cylinder word that means… I don’t know what it means, but that’s what they called it, the municipal golf course.

  And we faced a heavy decision: what were we going to do with ten head of stray cattle that weren’t supposed to be running loose on the edge of town?

  Slim pulled on his chin. “Did you bring portable panels?”

  “Yes sir, ten of ‘em. My wife had to help me load ‘em in the trailer and she’s permanently mad at you.”

  “Bobby…”

  “She’s going to send you a bill for five hundred dollars.”

  Slim ignored him. “Well, let’s set ‘em up. I brought a horse. I’ll pen ‘em, we’ll load ‘em in my trailer, and be on our way.” He gazed at the sky. “Before this place turns into an ice skating rink.”

  They opened the gate on the deputy’s trailer and started lugging the portable panels. I was there to supervise. “Okay, boys, hook those panels together and make a catch pen. Good. Bring another one and try to hurry, I’m freezing out here.”

  “Hank, get out of the way!”

  “Sure glad you brought the dog.”

  “Bobby, hush.”

  I had to keep a close eye on those guys, I mean, it’s hard to find good help these days.

  They hooked the panels together, and when we were done, we had a nice little catch pen that would hold ten head. We left the pen open on the north end and made a wing with the pickups and trailers.

  Slim unloaded his horse and began tightening the cinches. Next thing I knew, the horse and I were glaring at each other. He was a big red dun named Snips, and I had never cared for him. He was your typical ranch horse, only moreso. He had an attitude, don’t you see, thought he was hot stuff, and he had tried to bite my tail off on several occasions.

  Have I mentioned that I don’t like horses? I don’t like horses, have no use for ‘em at all, and Snips and I glared daggers at each other.

  He didn’t look so happy, standing out there in the freezing drizzle. He was shivering and had a hump in his back that made him look like a camel. Naturally, I was concerned.

  “Hey Snips, how’s it going, pal? Nice day for a ride, huh?” He pinned down his ears and made a lunge at me. “Ha, ha! A little slow there, Trigger. I guess you’ve been spending too much time with your nose in the hay feeder.” He made another snap and missed. “Nope, half a step behind. Loose fifty pounds and we’ll try it again.”

  Hee hee. Boy, I love heckling horses! I mean, they think they’re so superior to the rest of us.

  Slim stuffed his boot into the left stirrup, took a double grip on the horn, and lugged himself into the saddle. He was so bundled up with clothes, he didn’t look very graceful. Oh, and he drilled me with a hard gaze.

  “Hank, don’t mess with my horse. If you get me bucked off, we’re going to have words.” He turned to Deputy Kile. “Keep a handle on Bozo. He might help us later on, but I don’t need him chasing the stock.”

  “Can you ride without falling off?”

  Slim chuckled. “We never know. Ask me in fifteen minutes.”

  Slim stuck Fat Boy with the spurs and they trotted north, toward the cattle. Snips wrung his tail, pinned back his ears, and humped up in a halfway buck. What did I tell you? They’re all that way, arrogant and lazy. I’m not kidding. They think their whole purpose in life is to loaf around the hay feeder and EAT. Make ‘em do an honest day’s work and…never mind. Don’t get me started on horses.

  Deputy Kile and I got into his pickup. He turned up the heater and we watched the show, and by the way, that wasn’t so easy, because the freezing drizzle was making ice on the windshield. Deputy Kile turned on the defroster and windshield wipers. That helped.

  Slim approached the steers. They raised their heads and watched. He slowed his crowbait…his horse, that is, to a walk and started pushing the cattle toward the portable pen.

  Uh oh. One of them, a red bald-faced calf, was high-headed and you could see what was on his mind. He wanted to make a break. This close to town, that wouldn’t be funny. Slim moved Snips into the right position and kept the herd moving toward the pen.

  Deputy Kile nodded. “Good move.” He looked at me and seemed surprised that I was, well, sitting in his lap. Why not? I mean, his lap had been totally empty, even desolate, almost begging for a dog to fill it with warmth and friendship. And the pickup seat was cold.

  I went to Slow Taps on the tail section and his voice broke the silence. “Hank…”

  Yes sir?

  “Where did you get your smell?”

  My smell?

  “I’m not a fussy man, but you really stink.” He pushed me away.

  You know, it’s sad when little things break up a friendship. Hey, I had ridden most of the way into town in Slim’s lap and he hadn’t said a word about my so-called “smell.”

  Oh well, back to the main event. Slim eased the steers into the catch pen, stepped off his horse, and dragged the panels together, closing up the pen. Deputy Kile said, “He got ‘em.”

  Well, this was turning out better than anyone could have expected. I mean, it could have been a real mess if the cattle had spooked and gone on a wild romp through town—while freezing drizzle was putting a coat of ice on everything.

  And by the way, it WAS. We needed to finish the job and get out of there.

  Slim backed the stock trailer up to the catch pen, then he and Deputy Kile unhooked two panels to make a gate, and baling-wired the panels to the trailer.

  Are you following all of this? If not, don’t worry. It was a simple procedure but hard to explain, and I was there to make sure they didn’t mess anything up. The important thing is that with my help, they rigged up the pen so that we could load the steers into the stock trailer.

  At that very moment, Deputy Kile heard someone calling him on the sheriff’s department radio. He trotted to the pickup and spoke into the microphone. He returned wearing a frown. “Slim, they’ve got a cattle truck jack-knifed on the highway north of town. I’ve got to go. Can you handle it from here?”

  Slim smirked. “Bobby, when you leave, it’s like two good men showed up to help. Thanks for the panels. Hank and I can finish up.”

  The deputy unhooked his trailer and left in a hurry, his red light flashing and his siren screeching. Wow. It was impressive, and you know what? It kind of reminded me of my own work back at the ranch, roaring up to the county road to intercept the mailman and sending him on his way.

  Anyway, law enforcement went speeding off, and Slim and I were left to finish the job. He climbed over the panels and got into the pen with the steers. “Okay, pooch, it’s time for you to make a hand. Let’s load ‘em up.”

  Aye, aye, sir!

  I slithered my bad self under the bottom rail, went into Stealthy Crouch, and beamed a cold cowdog glare at the steers. “Okay, you morons, face the trailer and load up. Slackers have to deal with me. Move it!”

  Sometimes they cooperate and sometimes I have to do some persuading with the Nip Heels Procedure. This time, by George, everything was copacetic and all systems worked. The little dummies hopped into the trailer and that was that.

  Slim reached for the trailer gate, swung it shut, and was trying to secure the latch, when…uh oh. Remember that high-headed red steer? He hopped into the trailer, ran to the front, did a one-eighty, and came back at a high rate of speed.

  He center-punched the gate at twenty miles an hour. He might have been a “little dummy,” but he was a pretty big little dummy, about six hundred pounds of muscle and meanness, and when he crashed into the gate, bad things happened.

  The gate flew open, knocking Slim into me and sending both of us rolling across the frozen golf course grass. It knocked us both about half-silly, but I managed to croak, “You’d better shut the trailer gate or they’ll all jump out!”

  Slim struggled to his feet and managed to slam the gate shut and secure the latch. At that point, we both turned our attention to the…yipes, this steer was an outlaw in a bad mood. We’re talking glowing red eyes, smoke coming out of his nostrils, quivering with malice, and pawing up frozen dirt with his hooves.

  HERE HE CAME! And fellers, he cleared the ring, in spite of my best efforts to stun him with some Dog Karate. I mean, he was big enough and mean enough to eat Dog Karate for breakfast, and he tried.

  It was a sad spectacle and a dark time for our ranch. Slim climbed over the icy fence and I scrambled under it, and we watched while the demented steer slammed into the trailer gate and hit the portable pen in three places, then…

  This was bad, so prepare yourself. The nutcase steer wasn’t able to destroy the equipment, so he circled the pen and leaped into the air, straddled a panel (and bent it), and tumbled to the ground—outside the pen. There, he got back on his feet, made a razzoo at Snips, and raced off to the north…TOWARD DOWNTOWN TWITCHELL!

  Oh no! That had been our worst nightmare from the very start of this mission, that we’d have livestock running through town.

  And it was happening, before our very eyes.

  Chapter Ten: Good Nutrition Is Very Important

  Are you still with me? If you decide to quit and go to bed, I can’t blame you. I mean, cowboys and their dogs wake up in the middle of the night, having bad dreams about this sort of thing.

  And don’t forget about the ice storm. It was getting worse by the second.

  I shot a glance at Slim. His chin had fallen down on his chest and his eyes had turned into empty holes. And as if all of this weren’t bad enough, his horse started mouthing off.

  “Oh, nice work, doggie, nice work!”

  I whirled around and saw him grinning, and we’re talking about one of those big ugly horse grins with green alfalfa-stained teeth showing beneath fat lips. Nobody does horse grins better than a horse.

  I tried to melt him with a glare and wanted to deliver a slashing reply, but, well, found myself without anything slashing to say. All I could think of was, “Oh yeah?”

  “That’s why we tie up the dogs and leave ‘em at the house. Now I have to clean up your mess, as usual.”

  I thundered toward him…two steps. “Oh yeah? Well, you’re a fat, arrogant fraud of a horse with green-stained teeth!”

  “Woo, poison! Come two steps closer, puppy, and I’ll show you what green-stained teeth can do to a dog’s tail.”

  I was trembling with righteous anger, aching to give the jerk the thrashing he so richly deserved, but…well, this was a business situation and one of us had to show some maturity. I made a wide loop around him (don’t forget, they can kick a dog into next week) and joined my poor, discouraged comrade, who was leaning against the pen and staring off to the north.

  I jumped up on his thigh and beamed him Looks of Deepest Sympathy. He rubbed me on the head and tried to smile. “Well, we got whipped on that one, pooch. Now it’s time to cowboy-up. I have no idea how this is going to turn out, but you stay here with the pickup.”

  Yes sir.

  He walked over to the smart-aleck horse, tightened the front cinch, and climbed into the saddle. He untied his catch rope and built a loop. “Don’t follow me, Hank. Do you copy?”