Chapter Ten: A Buzzard Falls Out of the Sky

Was this my reward for saving Slim from the bull? Was this the kind of thanks they gave a dog for putting his life on the line and fighting for his ranch?

Use him up and then leave him for coyote bait?

Yes, I couldn’t help feeling a little bitter about it. I mean, I had only one life and one body and it seemed to me they were being a little careless with it.

But on the other hand, what else could they do? I had tried to walk and couldn’t. Slim was hurt and couldn’t lift me into the pickup. Alfred had tried. And Drover . . .

“Oh Hank, we’re going to leave you out here all alone, and boy, you talk about heavy guilt! This just might do me in.”

“Drover, I’ve got a suggestion.”

“Anything, Hank, anything at all. You just tell me what I can do.”

“All right. Why don’t you stay out here and keep me company?”

There for a second, I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head. “Stay . . . keep you . . .” He started backing away. “You know, Hank, I’d love to do that, I really would, but with this leg the way it is, I sure think I’d better . . . and I wouldn’t feel right about leaving headquarters without a dog to take care of things, and maybe I’d better . . . ”

He turned and limped back to the pickup. “Thanks a bunch, Drover, and the next time you need my help, I hope you’ll call a bull!”

“Thanks, Hank. I know everything’ll be all right. Oh, this guilt is terrible!”

He hopped into the back of the pickup and that was the last I saw of the little stooge.

I looked around and there was Little Alfred, standing over me. He bent down and petted me on the head.

“We have to weeve you, Hankie, but I’ll come back. I pwomise, I’ll come back.”

He bit his lip and ran to the pickup.

Slim put the gearshift in neutral and started the motor. Then he told Alfred to step on the clutch pedal and he shifted into first gear—Grandma Low, as he called it. Alfred let out the clutch and the pickup lurched forward.

With Alfred standing up in the seat and gripping the wheel in both hands, they made a circle in the pasture and began the long, slow trip back to the house, two miles to the south. The boy waved one last good-bye, and I heard Drover say, “Oh, the guilt! Oh, my leg!”

And then they were gone.

The silence moved over me like a fog. My friends had left, the horse had left, even the cattle had left. I had never known such a lonesome feeling in all my career. About the only thing I could cling to was Little Alfred’s promise that he would come back to get me.

But that wasn’t much to cling to. I knew he couldn’t drive in those pastures without Slim to help him.

I checked the location of the sun. Five o’clock, was my best guess, which meant that I had four hours of daylight left before darkness fell and the local cannibals began stirring around.

My whole body ached and that hot summer sun was burning me up. I put cannibals out of my mind and fell into a sleep—and dreamed about cannibals, dozens of them, howling and circling in the darkness and closing in on me.

I awoke and saw that the sun had slipped almost to the horizon. I had slept for several hours. I glanced off to the south, hoping to see a plume of dust in the air that would tell me that help was on the way.

There was no plume of dust. Help was not on the way.

My mouth was burning up with thirst, and I began to wonder if I could drag myself over to the stock tank and get a drink. I did a quick scan of my bodily parts and discovered, to my surprise, that all four legs appeared to be attached, and even unbroken.

I’m sure the Hooking Bull would have been disappointed to find out that after all his attempts to shred me up like so much paper, he hadn’t even busted a leg.

Well, if I still had four unbroken legs, maybe I could stand on them. I lifted my hind end, lifted my front end, and found myself standing on all four legs. I took a step.

Now, those legs were a tad wobbly and I fell down a couple of times, and yes, the old body was beat up and sore, but I finally managed to limp and weave my way to the stock tank.

The next challenge came when I tried to stand on my hind legs, lean over the edge of the tank, and lap up some of that nice, sweet, cool windmill water. It was tough, let me tell you, but once I got the smell of that water, I didn’t quit until I had lapped up a bellyful.

And once I had gone that far, I began to wonder if maybe I could pull myself over the edge of the tank and take a little dip. I hopped and I pulled and I tugged, and every one of those bruised muscles talked to me, but by George I made it up to the edge and let myself tumble over into the water

Oh, that was the most wonderful feeling! I was surrounded by cool friendly water, and I found swimming quite a bit easier on my injured parts than walking. It was very nice, paddling around in that nice cool water.

Only trouble was that when I tried to climb out, I couldn’t. Seems that the the water in my hair had increased my weight just enough so that I, well, couldn’t get out. I swam another lap and tried it again. Same deal.

My first thought was that I would probably drown, but then I realized that by placing my hind feet on the bottom of the tank and hanging my front paws over the edge, I could stand up. That was a welcome discovery, because drowning in a stock tank just didn’t fit into my plans at all.

Well, there I was, more or less stranded in a tank of water, when I heard a flapping sound in the air above me. This was followed a moment later by a metallic “ping” and a noise that I can only describe as a loud squawk, something like this: “Awk, awk, awk!”

Then something large and black and ugly hit the water with a big kersplash. Kind of startled me. Well, you know me. When things fall out of the sky and land in the water only a few feet away, I don’t just stand there. I bark!

Yes sir, I barked. Since I was injured, it wasn’t my usual deep ferocious bark, but it wasn’t all that bad either. I had a feeling that whatever had fallen into the tank would get the message.

Well, the subject . . . creature, thing, whatever it was, came up sputtering and flapping its . . . hmmm, flapping its wings. That was my first clue. No, actually the second. The first clue, now that I began to focus my powers of concentration, had been “big and black and ugly.” To that information I added the “flapping of wings,” and bingo, I had sketched out the identity of the mysterious intruder.

We had us a buzzard in the stock tank, is what we had. Now all that remained was for me to deter­mine which of the two local buzzards had been dumb enough to fall off the windmill tower.

“Halt! Who goes there! State your name, rank, and brand of cereal at once!”

“Shut up, dog, you’re supposed to be our supper and I’m a-fixing to drown if I don’t get out of here. Junior, you git yourself down here and save my life, it was you that pushed me into that dadgummed windmill fan and got me knocked off the dad­gummed tower!”

“W-w-w-well, y-you k-kept c-c-c-crowdin’ me and y-you sh-shouldn’t be so p-p-pushy all the t-t-time, all the time. Y-y-you’re s-so g-g-g-g-greedy, it s-s-serves you r-r-right.”

“That’s a fine thang for a boy to say about his own flesh and blood, his poor old daddy who’s scrimped and saved and tried to bring him up right!”

“W-w-when did y-you s-s-scrimp and s-s-s-save?”

By this time the pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. What we had was a buzzard named Wallace in the stock tank and another named Junior up on the windmill tower.

There was a moment of silence, so I took the opportunity to say, “Excuse me, but it seems to me . . .”

“Shut up, dog, this here’s a family affair and we don’t need your two cents.” He turned back to Junior. “When did I scrimp and save? Son, I’ve scrimped and saved a thousand times over the years as I tried to teach you right from wrong, and how to get along in a hostile world.”

“Y-y-yeah, but I m-m-mean l-lately.”

“Lately? All right, maybe I’ve backslid a little and maybe I haven’t scrimped and saved as much I should have, but that don’t mean . . . son, I’m a-fixing to drown, buzzards wasn’t built for swimming!”

“M-m-maybe our d-d-doggie f-f-friend will he-he-help you. H-hi, d-d-doggie.”

I dipped my head at him. “How’s it going, Junior?”

“Oh f-f-f-fine, except P-p-pa’s f-fixing to, uh, d-d-drown to d-d-death in the w-w-w-w-w-w . . . stock t-t-tank.”

“Well, I could probably help the old wretch, if he’d just show the courtesy of asking for it.”

Wallace thrashed and sputtered. “Forget that, pooch! I ain’t a rich bird and I ain’t got much to show for all these years of toil and woe, but I’ve got my pride, yes I do, and I have never accepted help from my supper!”

I shrugged. “In that case, I hope you enjoy drowning as much as I’ll enjoying letting you.”

At this point you’re probably sitting on the edge of your chair, wondering if I actually let the old buzzard drown.

Yes, I did.

Or let’s put it this way. To find out if Wallace drowned, and if I was eaten by hungry cannibals, you’ll have to keep on reading and go to the next chapter.

I’m out of room for this chapter, see.