Chapter Eleven: The Bull Comes and Attacks the Poor Cats

But somehow I didn’t feel too proud of myself. “Wait a minute. Don’t get your tail in a wringer. I wasn’t trying to insult you.”

She stopped. “Yes sir, but you did.”

“Okay, I’m . . . let’s say that I was misquoted.”

“Does that mean you’re sorry?”

“No, it means . . . look, lady, let’s don’t get too picky. I’m Head of Ranch Security, and you’re squatting on my ranch. Let’s just say that I’m sorry I was misquoted.”

Her voice was soft but firm. “We may be squatters in your haystack, but we have our pride, and we ask for nothing. As soon as the children can travel, we’ll be leaving. You weren’t misquoted, and you’re not sorry you insulted us. Good evening, sir.” She turned to leave again.

“Wait. Will you just hold your horses?” She stopped and looked back at me. I ground my teeth together and prepared to say the most painful words in the language. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

Boy, that hurt, almost killed me.

“Thank you. It’s nice of you to say so.” Her gaze went to the rope. “Are you tied up?”

“Not exactly tied up, ma’am. I’ve been given a very important assignment. You see . . .” And I told her all about the bull and so forth.

She nodded. “Yes, we’ve seen him. He’s huge. I worry that he might harm the children. Do you think he might?”

I chuckled at that. “He might think about it, ma’am, but as long as I’m on duty, he won’t come back into the stack lot. That’s a guarantee. Your kids are safe. Oh, and by the way, if they want to wander over this way, it’ll be all right. No problem.”

“It’s their bedtime, but thank you. May I call you Hank?”

“Sure, why not? And maybe you have a name too, huh?”

“Gertie. Good night, Hank. I wish you luck with the bull.”

“Don’t need luck, Gertie, just brute strength and a brilliant mind. But thanks, and say good night to the kids.”

She went back to her place in the haystack. I watched until she disappeared in the gathering darkness. She definitely needed a few square meals. She was as skinny as a pencil, but not a bad old gal . . . for a cat, of course.

I had just turned toward the west and was watching the flashes of lightning in a storm cloud, when who or whom do you suppose came scampering up? Mister Stub Tail. The Original Cotton King. Drover.

“Hi Hank. I wondered where you were, and here you are, and I’ll be derned, they’ve got you tied up. Are you guarding the kitties? Gosh, that’s nice. They sure are cute.”

I glared at the runt. “No, I am not guarding the kitties. I’m not nice, and I don’t care that the kitties are cute. I’m guarding the haystack.”

“Oh, how fun.”

“Right, and maybe you’d like to help!”

“Sure, you bet. I love being a guard. Makes me feel important.” He plopped down beside me and wrinkled his face into a . . . well, he probably thought it was a ferocious expression, and then he tried to growl. It was more of a squeak. “Oh yeah, this is fun. What are we guarding against?”

“The bull, Drover, the same bull that tore down the fence.” The lights went out in his head, and his eyes turned into empty holes. “Hello? Are you there?”

All at once he was on his feet, dragging himself around in a circle. “Darn the luck! I don’t know why this old leg picks the very worst times to go out on me. I was all set to help you and have some fun, but . . . oh my leg! It’s killing me.”

“Forget the leg, Drover, and get into Guard Formation. You can do this job on three legs.”

He began backing away. “Well, I’d love to stay, Hank, I really would, honest, but I don’t think I could stand the pain. It’s getting worse by the second.”

“Ignore it, Drover. We all must learn to live with pain.”

He kept backing away. “Yeah, I’ll try to live with it, but I think I’ll live with it down at the gas tanks.”

“Drover, halt! Come back here immediately, and that’s a direct order.”

“Yeah, but you’re tied up, and I’d better rush this leg down to my old gunnysack. See you around, Hank, and good luck with the bull.”

“Drover! Come back here, you little weenie! You’ll pay for this. I’m going to put this in my report.”

“Take care of the kitties.”

And with that, he vanished into the darkness. One of these days, Drover is going to pull that leg business once too often and get himself . . . oh well. I would be better off without him.

I tried to forget about Drover and turned my gaze back to the southwest. That line of thunderclouds seemed to be moving in our direction, twinkling with flashes of lightning and giving off an occasional grumble of thunder. Well, our grass could use a nice rain, but I could think of better places to be . . .

Suddenly I found myself staring into the eyes of a bull! I mean, he was right there in front of me, with his nose six inches away from my nose. His head was huge and ugly, and there was meanness in his eyes.

He spoke. “What are you doing here?”

“I . . . I’m not sure. That is, I was just . . . uh . . . watching the clouds . . . hoping for rain. I’m sure you’ll agree that we could use a, well, rain. You know, the grass.”

No change in his expression. “I’m fixing to take out this fence. You got any objections?”

“Take out the fence? You mean, tear it down?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, to be real honest, my partners and I kind of wanted to leave it where it is. You see, it was put here to protect the, uh, stack lot, so to speak.”

“Yeah. But I don’t like fences.”

I could feel his hot breath on my face. “It is an ugly fence, isn’t it? I’ve said that many times, no kidding I have, but as far as tearing it out, I don’t think . . .”

“I’m fixing to take it out. What about you?”

“Oh no, I’ll just watch, thanks.”

He brought his nose even closer to my face. I could smell him now. He smelled . . . huge. “What I’m asking, dumbbell, is do you want me to take you out with the fence, or would you like to move? ’Cause once I get started, I tend to ignore the screams of the wounded.”

Gulp. “The screams of the wounded? Gee, you’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I want that hay. Shall we fight about it?”

“Oh no, I’ve always felt that . . . what would you like for me to do, Mister . . . what was your name again?”

“Crash. They call me Crash Bull.”

“Nice name.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes sir.”

“Go over there and lie down. Don’t get in my way. Don’t make a peep. Don’t move a hair. Maybe I’ll leave you a few bites of hay.”

“Well . . . ha, ha . . . thanks a bunch, but dogs don’t actually . . .”

“Shut up. I’m coming through.”

“Right-o.”

I got out of the way just in time, sprinted out to the end of my rope, and laid myself flat out on the ground. Crash was well named. You wouldn’t believe what an easy job he made of taking out that fence. I mean, he didn’t run at it or show much effort at all. He just leaned against it and then walked through it.

Over the snap of broken posts and wire, I heard him say, “Piece of cake, piece of cake.”

I watched all of this by rolling my eyes. I mean, he had forbidden me from making peeps and moving hairs, but he hadn’t said anything about rolling my eyes. So I laid there like a log . . . and tried not to think about what Slim would say in the morning. Oh brother. I had a feeling that he wouldn’t understand.

Crash flattened the fence and then gave it the further insult of walking across it. That barbed wire had no more effect on his thick hide than the bite of a flea. With the muscles rippling across his massive shoulders, he lumbered over to the stack and . . . uh-oh, headed straight toward the bale where Gertie Cat and her family had made their home.

“Uh . . . Mister Bull? Crash? Excuse me, but I’d like to point out . . .”

His head shot around. “Shut your trap, or I’ll stomp you all the way to China.”

Well . . . I had tried. Too bad for Gertie Cat. Her home was about to be destroyed, eaten by a monster bull. I could only hope that she would be able to save the family. Gee whiz, if that bull stepped on one of those . . .

But you know what? Life sometimes plays amazing tricks and provides us with very strange twists. Crash probably weighed two thousand pounds. He was so strong and heavily armored that he could walk through barbed wire. Gertie cat weighed . . . what? Two pounds, three pounds with a full load of milk? A scrawny little cat, in other words, who couldn’t have knocked a hole in a wet paper sack.

But she had a secret weapon, something no bull in history had ever possessed. She was a mother. That turned out to be a force more powerful than bone and muscle, barbed wire and cedar posts . . . and even fear.

Here’s what happened. I witnessed it with my own eyes. Crash Bull lumbered over to the bale of hay, took hold of it with his huge jaws, picked it up, and gave it a shake. Suddenly and out of no­where, that skinny mother cat came flying out of the dark­ness, jumped into the middle of Crash’s face, and began buzzsawing him with all four feet and a mouthful of spikes.

And you talk about noise! You never heard such squalling, screaming, screeching, shrieking, hissing, yowling, and growling! That old gal sounded worse than thirty-seven nightmares full of vampires and monsters.

Crash Bull was stunned. He didn’t know what had taken hold of him. He grunted so loud that I could feel the shock waves of it. He charged away from the haystack, sending bales flying in all directions and throwing up a cloud of dust and alfalfa leaves. Then he pointed himself to the south, took out that whole side of the fence, and ran for his life—wearing Gertie Cat all over his face, and her still tearing him up with her buzzsaws.

All I could say was . . . WOW! That was the bravest, toughest skinny little mother cat I’d ever met, and fellers, she won my respect right there. By the time she got back, I’d already chewed my rope in half and was making plans to move her family into a new home.