Chapter Six: Masked Bandits Rob the Stage Coach

Okay, let’s mush on with the story.

There are no ordinary days in the Security Business. The world we inhabit is full of shadows and disguises, spies and imposters, murky characters lurking behind bushes and doing the things we least expect to lease.

A tiny sound in the night might turn out to be a Charlie Monster, and a so-called employee of the Post Office might turn out to be…we never know. That’s why we have to put boots on the ground and jets in the sky, and check out everything that looks even slightly suspicious.

I intercepted the vehicle in front of the house and gave it the full load of Halt and Identify Barkings. I was about to disable the tires when…okay, it was Slim and Loper coming back from the field, and it underscored a point I’ve made before.

We dogs can’t do Traffic Control when our people don’t keep up their log books and tell us what’s going on.

Maybe it was lunch time and maybe they were coming back for a bite to eat, but how’s a dog supposed to know what time it is? Am I a clock? I’ve never been a clock and I never want to be a clock.

Loper was driving and blew the horn at me. Slim…this was so childish…Slim wrinkled up his face and growled at me through the open window.

I couldn’t believe it. Those guys are so…sometimes I get the feeling that they don’t take my job seriously. I mean, with them, everything is a big joke.

They didn’t deserve an escort, but I ride for the brand and try to do my job. I gave ‘em an escort around the south side of the house and up the gravel drive beside the yard gate.

Guess who was sitting beside the gate. Drover. Mister Run and Hide.

I rumbled over to him. He gave me a silly grin and said, “Oh, hi. You’re back.”

“I’m back and you’re in trouble.”

“Gosh, what did I do?”

“Disobeying an order, insubordination, cowardice on the field of battle…the list goes on and on. Your court martial will convene at three o’clock and you will probably be fed to the buzzards.”

“I saw some buzzards this morning.”

“Good. I hope they’re hungry.”

“It’s kind of neat, the way they float in the air like a kite.”

“Drover, you’re the only dog on this ranch who has time to gawk at buzzards.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you sleep all the time.”

“I do NOT sleep all the time, and let me warn you again about spreading lies and gossip. This will all come out at your court martial. Don’t leave the ranch or speak to any strangers.”

I marched away and left him sitting in the rubble of his own shubble.

Alfred ran to his dad and they hugged, then went inside to check on the lunch. Slim headed toward the gate and saw me. I was, well, just sitting there, minding my own business.

A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Hankie, when I growled at you, did you think I was the Creature From the Black Latrine? Tell the truth.”

Oh brother. No, I did NOT think he was the Creature From the Whatever It Was. The Black Latrine. And by the way, it was supposed to be the Creature From the Black Lagoon. That was the name of a scary movie, but he got it all wrong.

And as for the trick itself…he had pulled that trick so many times, even Drover could have figured it out. It was old, tired, corny, and childish. If he was going to continue this kind of nonsense, at least he could come up with…

Huh?

You won’t believe this. I couldn’t believe it either. I must have looked away for just a moment, and when I looked back at Slim…he was gone! I’m not kidding, he had vanished, and standing in the spot he had occupied was A TOTAL STRANGER, WEARING A BANDANA OVER HIS NOSE AND MOUTH!

Who wears a mask over his face? Outlaws, that’s who, crooks and bandits. Bandits are called “bandits” because they always wear bandanas. See, they put on a mask right before they rob trains and hold up stage coaches, and we had one standing right there beside the yard gate.

A bandit, that is, not a stage coach. We had a masked bandit right in the middle of ranch headquarters!

Where you find one outlaw with a mask, you can always expect to find several more. They operate in gangs, don’t you see, and that’s how they pull their jobs. I couldn’t see the rest of the crooks, but I knew they were out there somewhere, hiding behind trees and bushes.

Was this scary or what? You bet. It was serious enough to send a buzz of alarm down my backbone and out to the end of my tail. But it got worse. The Masked Bandit raised both hands to shoulder-level and…and the fingers spread apart and…good grief, made CLAWS! Huge creepy claws with talons three inches long…and dripping blood from his last job.

Then he started GROWLING, a rumble from the depths of his throat, hidden somewhere behind the mask. And he began slouching forward…TOWARD ME! It was exactly the kind of stiff-legged slouch you would expect from a masked bandit who had…I don’t know, transformed into a monster that eats dogs.

Well, you know me. When monsters show up on the ranch, I don’t just sit there, waiting to be torn to shrugs. The hair shot up on my back, and we’re talking about every single hair from my ears out to the extremities of my tail section. A gurgling bark took shape in the deeps of my depths, and I began backing way.

And then the creature began uttering some horrible words:

“Fee!

Fie!

Fo!

Fog!

I smell the blood of a dingbat dog!”

Did you hear that? Good grief, he was smelling my blood, and I wasn’t even bleeding yet! He kept lurching toward me and I backed away some more, until I backed into my assistant.

“Drover, listen up. You’ve spent most of your life goofing off, but we need you now.”

“It’s Slim.”

“We’re going into Red Alert. Repeat, Red Alert. Form a line, load up Anti-Monster Barks, and go straight into Code Three Procedures.”

“It’s Slim.”

“On my signal, we will lay down a barrage of…what did you say?”

“It’s Slim.”

I whirled around and gave him a blistering glare. “Are you nuts? I know Slim. I know him very well. I’ve stayed at his house, slept in his bed, eaten his mackerel sandwiches, and drunk water from his commode. That is not Slim!”

“He’s wearing a bandana over his face, is all.”

“This has nothing to do with bananas, and I advise you to wipe that monkey grin off your face.”

He pointed a paw and widened his silly grin. “Look.”

I looked in the direction his paw was pointing and…huh?

Okay, we can relax and call off the Red Alert. You won’t believe this. In fact, I don’t want to talk about it. I refuse to say another word.

Sorry. I know you’re curious, but it’s just too outrageous.

Unbelievable.

Shocking.

Okay, I’ll talk about it. Do you know the difference between a ranch cowboy and a clown in the carnival? A carnival clown is actually funny, whereas your average cowboy tries to be funny but isn’t.

It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. While I’m working eighteen hours a day, trying to run this ranch and keep it safe from whatevers, those guys lie awake at night, thinking of new ways to pull tricks on their dogs.

Loper is bad about it, but Slim is a hundred times worse. The man has no shame. Does he actually do any work on this ranch? Does he get paid for this stuff?

Okay, the Masked Bandit turned out to be Slim. See, he’d tied a red bandana around his face, concealing everything but his eyes, and he did something sneaky with his eyes. I’m not sure what he did, but…

Well, what’s a dog to think? One minute we’re living in a normal world, on a working cattle ranch with two grown men who pay taxes and have the right to vote, and the next minute, they’re playing Clowns and Monsters. How am I supposed to guide the ship when we’ve got crazy people running through the control room?

Well, as you might expect, Slim enjoyed his little moment of glory. Oh, he loved it! He pulled down the mask and revealed the rest of his face, which consisted mostly of a huge grin. “Did I fool you, pooch?”

I held my head at a proud angle and tried to salvage a few smithers of dignity. I beamed him an icy glare that said, “If your mother could see you today, she would be so ashamed. She’d wonder why she went to all the trouble to raise you.”

There, by George, I got him told.

Did he get the message? Of course not. He was too busy laughing at his own stale humor—just what you’d expect.

You know, if dogs wrote the history books, we would paint a very different picture of the American West, and let me tell you, it would raise some eyebrows.

Just then, Loper stuck his head out the screen door and yelled, “Let’s eat! Fried chicken and smashed ‘taters.”

Slim started toward the gate, but stopped and looked back at me. “Pooch, you’re not going to hold a grudge, are you?”

What? Of course I was going to hold a grudge!

“I was just funnin’.”

Yeah, well, what’s fun for the goose is sauce for the duck.

He patted his thigh with his right hand. “Oh, come ‘ere, let’s make up and be friends again.”

No. He could find himself another friend. Maybe there was a skunk on the ranch who was desperate for companionship. Me? I had better things to do. No.

“Hank, maybe I can smuggle you out some chicken bones.”

Bribery would not…chicken bones?

“Now, come on over here and let’s make up and be pals again.”

Oh, all right. I swallowed my pride, marched over to him, and collected rubs on the ears and several pats on the ribs. On this outfit, it’s always the dogs who end up walking the extra mile, and do you know why? Because dogs CARE about things like loyalty and friendship.

And so it was that Slim and I made a solemn pledge to trudge on with a friendship that he didn’t deserve, and he got my friendship at a bargain price. In this world, what else can you buy for a couple of chicken bones?