Chapter Four: Here’s a Fresh Chapter

There, we’ve changed chapters. Drover was pondering my question, if you recall. At last he gave his answer.

“The point is that if you sleep all the time, there’s not much difference between day and night. I guess.”

“I see. There’s a certain amount of truth in what you say, Drover, but allow me to point out one small flaw in your ointment.”

“Pigs say ‘oint.’”

I stared at the runt. “No, as a matter of fact, they don’t say ‘oint.’ They say ‘oink,’ oink with a K. It’s a well-known fact that pigs and hogs are unable to pronounce Ts.”

“Aw, you’re just teasin’.”

“Not at all, Drover. It’s scientific truth that pigs and hogs . . .”

“What’s the difference between a pig and a hog? I’ve always wondered.”

“Then it’s good that you asked, Drover. That’s how we learn and expand our minds, by inquiring about things we don’t understand.”

“Yeah, and I don’t understand why water is always so wet. And how come chickens move their heads when they walk. We dogs don’t walk that way.”

“That’s correct, Drover, and you’ve made an interesting observation there.”

“Yeah, but what’s the answer?”

“The answer is very simple, as most answers tend to be. Your ordinary chicken moves his head when he walks because his head is connected to his legs. Do you know about clocks and pendulums?”

“No, I’ve never had a clock.”

“Drover, I’m aware that you’ve never had a clock. Even if you had a clock, you couldn’t tell time.”

“Yeah, if I could tell time, I’d tell it to speed up, ’cause I sure get bored sometimes.”

“Yes, well, the source of your boredom is yourself, Drover. It’s a well-known fact that boring personalities suffer from boredom.”

“I’ll be derned. I knew it was something.”

I began pacing back and forth in front of him, as I often do when I am plunged into deep thoughts.

“Yes, if you would concentrate on being less boring, you would be less bored. It all fits together.”

“Yeah, and you know what? I chewed on a board one time and got splinters in my mouth.”

“There, you see? That’s exactly my point. Chew­ing on boards is a way of relieving boredom, but it provides only temporary relief because it doesn’t go to the root of the heart.”

“I’ll be derned. You mean hearts have roots?”

I couldn’t help chuckling at his nativity. “Drover, of course they do. Trees have roots. Teeth have roots. All things that are rooted in reality have roots.”

“What about root beer?”

“Inside every glass of root beer, Drover, there lurks a root.”

“How come it lurks?”

“It lurks because . . . because you ask so many stupid questions, and I’m afraid we’re out of time.”

“Oh darn. I wanted to ask about the chicken who swallowed the clock.”

All at once my lips rose into a snarl, and I found myself glaring at him. “The chicken didn’t swallow a clock, you meathead, and stop talking. I came down here on a very important mission and you’ve got me so scrambled, I can’t remember what it was.”

“I love scrambled eggs.”

“Hush! Not one more word.”

“Okay.”

My snarl turned into a growl. “You just said one more word.”

“I did?”

“Yes, you did. I told you not to say one more word, and you said okay. For your information, okay is one word.”

“I thought it was two letters.”

“No, it’s one word, and I forbid you to say one more word.”

“O.K.”

“That’s better.” I began pacing again. My brains had turned into a junkyard. “Now, where was I—and don’t answer, Drover. I’m asking myself, not you.”

“Okay.”

“It was something very important, a problem that absolutely couldn’t wait and had to be ad­dressed immediately.”

“Well, if ‘O.K.’ is two letters instead of one word, maybe the two letters have to be addressed.”

I stared into the vacuum of his eyes for a long moment. I remembered the two letters that Slim and Loper had addressed and put into the mailbox.

Did Drover know something about that puzzling event, something that he wasn’t telling? Was this a clue that promised to lead my investigation off into an entirely different direction?

“Drover, let me ask you one question. Do the letters I-R-S mean anything to you?”

“Well, let’s see here. I-R-S. I are confused. ‘Confused’ starts with an S, so maybe that’s what it means.”

“‘Confused’ starts with a C, Drover.”

“Gosh, I guess I’m confuseder than I thought.”

The breath hissed out of my chest. Suddenly I felt that I was being crushed by the weight of my job, the weight of the investigation, and above all, the weight of Drover’s dingbat questions.

And his answers too. His dingbat answers were just as weird as his dingbat questions.

I marched several steps away, blinked my eyes, took several deep breaths, and tried to clear the sawdust out of my head. Then, in a flash, it hit me.

I whirled around. “I’ve got it, Drover. I just remembered why I came streaking down here.”

“Oh good, ’cause I’d almost forgotten.”

“Yes, I had come pretty close to forgetting myself.”

“Yeah, and if you forgot yourself, you’d really be lost.”

I forked him with a gaze of purest steel. “What?”

“I said . . . well, let’s see here.” He scratched his right ear. “If you went someplace and forgot to take yourself, you’d be out there all alone. I guess.”

“Hmmm, yes, that’s true, I suppose, but that’s a horse of a different color.”

“I got hoarse once. Barked all night. Made my throat raw.”

“Drover, hush. I was leading up to a very important point, which is that only moments ago, someone stole . . .”

My gaze fell upon a small pile of something between Drover’s paws. I hadn’t noticed it until now. “What is that between your paws, Drover?”

“My paws?” His eyes drifted down and settled on the objects. “Well, let’s see here.”

“They look like bones to me. Three bones.”

“Yes, they do. Look like bones. Sure do.”

I sniffed the air. “Furthermore, they smell like bones.”

He sniffed. “I’ll be derned, they do. Smell like. Bones.”

“If they look like bones and smell like bones, then by simple logic we arrive at the conclusion that they are . . . what?”

“Uh . . . bones?”

“Very good.” I lumbered over to him and stuck my nose in his face. “Three bones, Drover, the exact number of bones that were stolen from me at the yard gate. Is it possible, could it be that you stole three bones from the Head of Ranch Security? From your superior? From one of the few friends you have left in this world?”

“Well, I . . .”

“Because if you did, Drover, then you are a thieving, scheming, traitorous, treacherous little pick­pocket.”

“Oh my gosh, don’t say those things, Hank!”

“It’s true, isn’t it? Out with it! I want the truth, the holey truth, the awful, dreadful truth. Go ahead and confess, Drover, before it’s too late.”

“Well . . .” He was so shook up, I thought he might start crying. “All right. I confess.”

“I knew it, I knew it!”

“I confess that I saw . . . a Bone Monster!”

An eerie silence moved around us. I stared at the runt. I could hardly believe my ears. The words had gone through me like a bolt.

“What did you just say?”

“I said . . . when?”

“Just now. Repeat what you just said.”

“Oh, okay.” He rolled his eyes and wadded up his face in an expression of . . . something. Great concentration, I suppose, or total confusion. I couldn’t tell. At last he spoke. “Was it something about clocks and chickens?”

“No.”

“Hogs and pigs?”

“No. You were confessing, Drover, and you said something about a . . . a Bone Monster.”

“Oh yeah. What a scary guy!”

I marched a few steps away. “Drover, I’ve been on this ranch for many years and I’ve never seen or heard of a Bone Monster. I don’t mean to doubt your word, but tell me more. Did you actually see this . . . this thing steal my bones?”

“Oh yeah, you bet, saw it with my own eyes.”

I sensed that the interrogation was entering a critical phase, so I told him to sit down and relax, while I stalked back and forth in front of him.

I mean, this was pretty serious stuff. A Bone Monster, on my ranch? I had to get to the bottom of this.