Chapter Nine: Bummer: I Get Drafted to Guard the Stack Lot

We got back to headquarters around four o’clock that afternoon. By that time, I had gone through the worst of the Toxic Mackerel Syn­drome and had managed to survive.

Do you think I got any sympathy from Slim? Oh no. Every time my stomach chugged, filling the cab with the smell of his awful sandwich, he had to make a big deal out of it.

He even had the gall to say—you won’t believe this—he even had the nerve to say, “Well, it serves you right for stealin’ food from your pal.”

In the first place, I hadn’t stolen anything. I had merely claimed my rightful share of the sandwich he’d waved in front of my nose. In the second place, what kind of pal gives his dog poisoned mackerel?

Oh well.

Remember the bull that had torn down the stack lot fence? Well, guess who was back in the stack lot when we returned to headquarters.

Mister Bull. It had probably taken him all of five seconds to rub down the fence, and we found him eating the southwest corner out of the haystack. This was bad news.

See, once a bull has developed a taste for freechoice alfalfa hay, he tends to want more of it, not less. Bulls are so big and powerful, they go pretty muchly where they want to go. It will take them a little longer to trash a good fence than a bad one, but bulls have nothing better to do, and they will rub and push on a fence until they have it on the ground.

It was getting along toward evening. Slim and I were tired from a long day’s work, and neither of us had the time or energy to fix fence or play chase games with that greedy bull. We ran him out of the stack lot again, and once again Slim patched up the fence.

I watched and tried not to reveal my true thoughts. I mean, it was obvious, wasn’t it? As soon as we left for the night, the bull would return, tear down the fence, and go back to eating a hole in the haystack.

So what was the point of patching the fence again? It was wasted effort. Until Slim came up with a radical new plan, such as loading the bull in a trailer and hauling him to the other side of the ranch, this was an exercise in fertility.

But no one asked my opinion. I was merely Head of Ranch Security, and we’ve already discussed that tender subject. I merely observed and kept silent and tried to remember that Slim never learned anything the easy way. His motto for ranch work was: “There’s five wrong ways of doing every job, and a guy ought to try every one of ’em, every time.”

Okay, maybe that wasn’t really his motto, but it sure described what I had seen over the years. No, until he came up with some radical new . . .

HUH?

He had the rope tied into my collar before I knew what was happening. I mean, I was just sitting there, lost in deep thoughts about Improved Ranch Management, and I’d hardly noticed that he’d slipped down to the machine shed and returned with twelve feet of cotton rope. And before I had time to smell a rat and run for cover, he had tied one end of the rope to my collar.

No doubt my face showed shock and surprise. I gazed up at him with hurt-filled eyes, whapped my tail on the ground, and asked, “What does this mean? You’ve tied a rope to my collar, and surely you’re not planning . . .”

He gave me a wink and a grin. “I’ve got it figgered, Hankie. It’s time for some radical action.”

What? Hey, if he thought he was going to stake me out and make bull bait out of me, he was badly . . . I had plans, a schedule to keep, a ranch to run. I was a very busy dog and . . .

No thanks. I pointed myself to the west, hit Full Flames on all engines, and . . . GULK . . . that dinky cotton rope proved to be stouter than you might have supposed, and I found myself lying on my back, looking up at my former friend.

“Hi, puppy. I’ve got a little job for you.”

Ha! Forget that. Not me, brother.

“It’ll be fun.”

Oh sure, right. No thanks.

“Here’s the deal. Me and you are going to make camp in the stack lot tonight.”

Oh? Both of us? Well, maybe that wouldn’t be . . . I mean, if he was going to stay, it might be okay. Even fun.

“We’re going to make camp, just me and you, ’cause we’re such wonderful pals and camping buddies.”

Yes, we’d had a pretty good relationship. A cowboy and his dog.

“And once we’ve made camp, I’m going home to my nice soft bed, and you’re gonna be our official ranch representative when the bull comes back.”

WHAT? I stared at him. I could hardly believe my ears.

Oh cruel world! Oh broken trust and wounded pride! What a fool I’d been. I should have eaten his whole sandwich when I’d had the chance. Instead of making a little stain on his pickup seat, I should have opened up the main valve and flooded the place.

Okay. Fine. It appeared that I had no choice in the matter. If he was enough of a rat to make bull bait out of his loyal friend, I would stiffen my back and hold my head high and do my duty for the ranch.

My conscience was clear in the matter. His conscience, on the other hand, would torment him all night, all day tomorrow, next week, next month, and for the rest of his life. One day in the distant future, fate would bring us back together. I would still be holding my head high, but he would be . . .

I didn’t know what. He would be a begger, a tramp, a ragamuffin, a broken heap of a man who had tried to forget that awful night in March . . . April . . . May . . . whenever it was that he had staked out his friend on a stake and left him to fight off the assault of a herd of bellowing bulls.

Okay, one bull, but he was a big bull.

What a cheap trick. I should have known he’d come up with some lousy job, but I’d been a fool, a trusting fool. I’ll say no more about it.

Yes I will. I want this entered into the record. Notice that his solution to the bull problem didn’t involve any posthole digging. That tells you all you need to know about Slim. With that, I shall rest my case.

We marched over to the patched fence. I marched with my head high and a look of steely resolve in my eyes, a proud member of the elite Ranch Security Forces. He, on the other hand, slumped along be­cause he was already struggling under the terrible weight of his guilty conscience.

Life would be hard for him after this. I almost felt sorry for him.

No I didn’t. I felt sorry for ME! Surely he wouldn’t actually go through with this. Surely he’d change his mind and . . .

He tied the other end of the rope to a corner post. He bent down and patted me on the head—as though that was some big deal and would make up for sticking me on a lousy guard job.

“Well, here’s our camp. Pretty nice place, huh?”

I glared daggers at him.

“And I want you to know, Hankie, that I sure appreciate you volunteering for this job.”

Ha. What a joke.

“And it just breaks my heart that you get to camp out tonight, and I have to go home to a nice soft bed!”

Right. With dirty sheets.

He rubbed his chin and looked off to the west. “The way I figger it, he’ll come back in the night for some more of that hay. All you have to do is give him a bark or two. I’m bettin’ he’ll take off running and won’t come back.”

Sure, and if he did happen to come back?

“But if he, does, just . . . you know, beat him up. Bite off his ears. You’re the cowdog around here, and I’ll bet you’ll think of something.”

I was thinking a LOT of somethings, and some of them involved Slim.

“Well, pleasant dreams, pooch. I’ll check you in the morning. And I sure hope there ain’t a bull in here. I’d be real disappointed.”

And with that veiled threat, he left and walked back to the pickup. Well, he had sure done me dirt on this harebrained scheme, but there was one bright cloud on the silver lining. As he walked away, I was proud to note that he had a water stain on the seat of his britches. Tee hee. And he was scratching his behind. Served him right.

I listened to the whine of his pickup motor fade into the distance. A deep silence moved in around me, and also darkness. The sun was going down, don’t you see, and when the sun goes down, it gets . . . well, dark, of course.

Burp.

And if I ever wanted to poison an enemy, I would feed him one of Slim’s mackerel sandwiches.

Well, I did a scan of the horizon and saw no bulls. So far, so good. Maybe he wouldn’t come tonight. Maybe he had gotten bored with tearing down fences and would go do something constructive. A guy could always hope.

But in the meantime, I needed to grab some sleep and revive my precious bodily fluids. Would I be able to sleep in this lonely outpost, knowing that somewhere out in the honk snork murging darkness there lurked a sassafras porkchop zzzz zzzzzzzzzzzz.

In other words, yes, I was able to sleep. In Security Work, we are forced to grab sleep when it’s up for grabs, which often comes in short naps. I did manage to grab a short nap, but suddenly . . .

My ears flew up. I raised my head to an upright position and checked Data Control. A warning light was blinking on the Earatory Scanners circuit. I hit three switches and threw all circuits over to Manual.

We were picking up strange unidentified noises. It appeared that my long night had just begun.