Chapter Twelve: Famous Heroes for Sure!

Alfred Leroy, where on earth have you been!? I’ve been worried sick about you. I had to call Viola to come up and watch Molly while I tramped around in the snow for thirty minutes, and young man, someone’s been in my chicken house!”

I turned to the boy. “Let’s see. According to that verse you sang, she’s your ‘favorite pal,’ right?”

“Uh-huh, becept when I’m naughty.”

At that point, Sally May stepped over the barbed wire fence and came toward us in a style of walking that I had seen many times before: short steps, fists clenched, and arms pumping at her sides.

I must admit that I hadn’t expected her to cross the fence. I mean, the bull was standing right there in plain sight, but she showed no more fear of that bull than if he’d been a hummingbird—which he wasn’t.

She stalked right up to the bull, kicked him on the leg with her snow boot, and said, “Scat, you nasty thing! Shoo! Hike!”

And then she breezed past him and zeroed in on us with a pair of eyes that seemed to be on fire. The bull’s head shot up and he stared at her in disbelief.

But then he went back to pawing up snow and snorting arrows of steam out of his nostrils. Unless I was badly mistaken, he was taking aim at someone’s mommy.

She marched up to us and stopped. In the glare of her eyes, we wilted like so many lettuce leaves on the Fourth of July. I mean, she had a talent for making Famous Heroes look and feel like . . . I don’t know what. Famous worms.

“Alfred, where on earth have you been, what on earth have you been doing, child, can’t you see that we’re having a snowstorm? I just don’t . . . how can you . . . sometimes I . . .”

Alfred cut her off. “Hey Mom, I think that bull’s fixing to come aftoo us.”

She whirled around and turned the Laser Look on Mr. Bull. “You silly bull, go on home. Scat!”

For several throbbing seconds, they glared into each other’s burning eyeballs. At that point the bull rumbled and took a step toward us, and it was then that Sally May realized the true dangerousness of our situation.

Slowly, she knelt down on one knee. Her right hand reached out and pulled Little Alfred to her. Her left hand reached out and . . . found my collar? My goodness, she dragged me out from behind . . .

Okay, I had more or less stationed myself behind her. I mean, that seemed a good safe place to be. Not that I was afraid of the alleged bull, you understand, but . . . it just seemed a good place to be, that’s all.

And I’ll admit that I went to Full Air Brakes and locked down all four legs, but you might say that didn’t work and my paws dug little trenches in the snow.

She hauled me out into the open, is what she did, and then she spoke to me in a voice that was soft but very firm. And while she spoke she never took her eyes off the bull.

“Hank, my child is in danger. Help me now and I’ll forgive all your many sins.”

Sins? Me? Now wait just a . . . all right, maybe I’d run up a small tab in the Sins Department. Not many, just a few, such as . . . okay, eating eggs in her chicken house, and you know, Little Alfred still had those broken shells in his coat pocket and no doubt she would . . .

I swung my gaze around to the bull and be­came spaghetti. THAT WAS A HUGE BULL, and she wanted ME to go out and . . .

The Moment of Truth had arrived. She was waiting for an answer. The bull was waiting to see which one of us he would tear to shreds.

Gulp.

You know what made up my mind? It was Sally May herself. I mean, here was your average ranch wife who weighed . . . what? A hundred and twenty-five pounds? And that bull probably weighed a ton, but her first thought was to protect her child, not to save herself.

Fellers, I admired that. It was the sort of thing a cowdog would do . . . or hope to do. Heroes come in many shapes and sizes, right? Well, this little ranch mom was handling herself the way heroes are supposed to.

By George, she was an inspiration to me and all at once I didn’t care how many times she had screeched at me and accused me of terrible crimes and told me that I stunk.

Me, go out and fight a bull for Sally May? You bet! For that courageous mom, I would put it all on the line, and if things didn’t turn out well and I got made into cottage cheese . . . so be it.

That’s what cowdogs do. That’s why we’re a little bit special.

I stood up. Our eyes met. She knew. I knew. She patted me on the head. I gave her a lick on the ear. She didn’t want that but she got it anyway.

I mean, sometimes a guy can hold back his emotions and sometimes he can’t, and when he’s fixing to go into battle, why bother to hold it back?

“Good luck, Hank.”

I marched forward. The snow crunched beneath my feet. I could hear the bull’s breath roaring in his chest, Drover’s teeth chattering, and little Alfred whispering, “Go get ’im, Hankie, beat the snot out of ’im!”

And I even heard the “Famous Heroes Battle Marching Song.”

We are Famous Heroes, y’all.

Sally May and I stand tall.

TNT and dynamite,

Look out, bull, here comes a fight!

I stiffened my tail, raised all hackles, and went into Stealthy Crouch Mode. The bull answered by shaking his horns, and then he bellered again. It was so loud, I could almost feel his voice on my face.

I kept moving. Closer and closer. Fifteen yards. Ten yards. Five. I stopped, took a deep breath, and threw a glance back over my shoulder. My friends were huddled in the snow, waiting for me to engage the enemy.

I turned back to the bull, and my goodness, he was so BIG and UGLY! My knees were trembling and I felt my courage slipping away. I switched over to Friendly Wags and tried to smile.

“Hi there, uh, Mister Bull. Nice weather, huh? I mean, if you like snow. Ha, ha. Some like snow and some don’t, I suppose, and how do you feel about . . . well, peace treaties and so forth? It seems to me that . . .”

He was on me before I knew it, just as though he had been shot out of a cannon. Zoom, wham! He loaded me up on his horns, gave his head a toss, and threw me high in the air.

“Well, that answered most of my questions and all at once things became pretty simple. When I hit the ground, he was there waiting for me, and he started working me over with those horns.

Bam! Bam! Oof! Ahh! Ooooooo!

Okay, if that’s the way he wanted it, by George I had a couple of tricks saved back. When he made his next pass at me, I put the old Australian Fang Lock on his nose, and he didn’t like that even a little bit.

He bucked. He snorted. He pawed the ground. He bellered and bawled in rage. He tossed his head, and since I was more or less attached to his nose, I went along for the ride. Boy, what a ride! Up and down, around and around.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little white comet streaking off to the north—Drover, no doubt. Then Sally May leaped to her feet, snatched up Little Alfred in her arms, and made a run for the fence.

The G-forces were pressing against my body. My jaws were getting tired. I couldn’t hold on much longer. I waited. Watched. Held my breath. Hurry, hurry!

They made it over the fence! They were safe!

And at that point I decided it was time to punch in the Eject and Bail Out procedure. It was pretty simple. I slacked off on the jaw pressure and suddenly I was being air-mailed toward the fence. At that point, all I had to do was Drop Landing Gear and . . .

My landing gear happened to be pointed in the wrong direction, since I was flying upside-down, and the landing turned out to be a little rough.

SPLAT! But the snow softened the blow and I was able to leap to my feet and scramble under the fence, one step ahead of the Jersey Express.

We were both panting for air. We glared at each other across the fence.

“You’re just lucky there’s a fence between us, pal, or I might . . .” He bellered and I . . . well, went to Escape Speed and streaked back to the house.

It was all over—except for the Post-War Cele­brations. A huge crowd was waiting for me when I glided into Headquarters: Drover, Alfred, Eddy the Rac, Sally May, Pete the Barncat, even J. T. Cluck, the head rooster. Oh yes, and Miss Viola had come out with Baby Molly.

Huge crowd. Brass band. Adoring masses. Smiles, flowers, cheers, blown kisses from the womenfolk. That’s what greeted me when I marched up to the yard gate.

Sally May . . . you won’t believe this, I didn’t either . . . Sally May gave me a huge embrace. Heck, she even pressed her cheek against my left ear! With her other arm, she gathered in Little Alfred and hugged him too and . . .

Crunch!

She stared at the pocket of his coat from whence the, uh, crunching sound had come. Oops. She plunged her hand into the pocket and . . . uh, came out with a handful of . . . eggshells, you might say.

Alfred and I exchanged worried looks. Thoughts of the firing squad flashed across my mind. I began rehearsing my story: “Well, you see, Sally May, there was this . . .”

But you know what? She smiled. Nay, she laughed! And she turned to me and said, “You scamps! I don’t even want to know what happened. Just don’t do it again.”

Yes ma’am! No ma’am. Not me, never again! I was a new dog, a reformed dog. I had taken the Pledge!

And would you believe that, to this very day, I have notched up a PERFECT RECORD and haven’t done ONE NAUGHTY THING? Can you believe that?

Neither can I. But I’m working on it.

Honest.

Case closed.