The Case of the Hooking Bull (5 page)

Chapter Eight: What Happened Next

H
ey, I had worked bulls before. I knew they were capable of inflicting big damage if they got half a chance, but I also knew that once you get a bull turned and running off in the right direction, 97.4 percent of the time he'll keep going and won't turn to fight.

So I played the percentages, right? When the numbers are on your side, everything's supposed to turn out just fine, and what more can a dog do?

Okay, I'll tell you what happened after I bit that stupid bull on the heels, but I'm not proud of it and there's no reason for blabbing it all over the country.

I sank my teeth into his left hock, little suspecting that he might kick me into a low polar orbit with the right one, and never dreaming that he could do it in the blink of an eye. But he derned sure did.

Kicked me dead-center in the rib cage, and I thought I had been run over by a large truck. All at once I saw red checkers and skyrockets exploding behind my eyes. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I couldn't move.

I don't know how far I flew through the air, but it wasn't far enough. I landed nose-first in the side of a sandhill. I lay there on the ground, gasping for breath and trying to restart my heart, when I began to realize that this killer hooking bull wasn't finished with me.

It wasn't enough that he'd broken the Law of Averages and taken a really cheap shot and kicked the absolute stuffing out of me. No, he wanted some more, and HERE HE CAME!

Any bull that would beat up on a handicapped dog is beneath contempt, but he loaded me up on his horns and pitched me into the Ozone Layer of the atmosphere.

I landed in an awkward heap in the middle of a sagebrush, and I remember with perfect clarity the thought that came to my mind when I hit: “Enough of this nonsense, let's go to the house!”

But the drama was just beginning, as it turned out. Slim popped the bull again and tried to turn him back to the northeast, but Mr. Bull seemed to be enjoying this, and instead of running away, he dropped his head and charged Slim's horse.

They got out of the way just in time. Slim rode a short distance away and started building a loop in his rope. His eyes had settled into a tight squint and the muscles in his jaws were working.

“You all right, Hankie?”

Arg, gasp, urg, wheeze, no, not really.

“Get up and let's teach this old general who's boss around here.”

Um, no thanks. I already knew who was boss.

Slim shook out his loop and held it shoulderhigh. He moved his horse toward the bull and tried to coax him into running. And I knew why he tried to do that. You see, it's much easier to rope an animal that's running away from you than to rope one that's facing you.

I knew that, even though I myself don't rope. I had watched Slim and Loper in action before, and I seem to have an amazing memory for such details. It's just part of being a cowdog.

But the bull didn't go for it. He was on the fight and he had no intention of running anywhere. He perked his ears, bellered, pawed the ground, and dared Slim to make the next move.

And Slim did. Instead of throwing your standard head-or-horn loop, as he would have done if the bull had run away, he turned his horse to the left and flicked out a hoolihan.

That hoolihan is a slick loop. It's quick, like a cobra striking its victim. No twirl, no warning, just swish and jerk slack. Slim's a pretty good hand with the hoolihan, and he nailed his loop to Mr. Bull's horns.

It was a great throw and one of the biggest mistakes he'd made all week.

He popped his slack, turned his horse, gave him the spurs, and headed for the stock trailer without even looking back. He should have looked back, because at that very moment Mr. Bull turned and ran in the opposite direction.

I saw what was coming and I tried to bark a warning, but it was already too late. The dye had already been cast into the washtub. Also, I couldn't even breathe, let alone bark.

To appreciate what happened next, you must remember: 1) the home-end of Slim's rope was tied solid to the saddle horn; 2) he was riding a young horse that probably had never been married to a full-grown bull; 3) horse and bull were running hard in opposite directions; and 4) nylon ropes don't break.

When they hit the ends of that rope at the same time, the wreck began. It jerked Slim's horse completely off his feet and he landed on top of Slim. I mean, all I could see of that cowboy was two hands, one boot, and part of a dirty felt hat, sticking out from under a horse that was wallowing around and trying to get up.

I had witnessed a few wrecks in my time, but this one looked about as nasty as any I could imagine. And it wasn't over yet.

The jerk whipped the bull around so hard that he swapped ends and came out of it facing Slim and the horse. And instead of teaching him a lesson, it had just made him madder than ever.

That bull's head was shaking with rage. I heard him snort. I heard Little Alfred scream. I heard Slim let out a groan from underneath the horse.

And then, before my very eyes, the bull lowered his head and charged the horse! And holy smokes, all at once we had a terrorized colt on top of a smashed cowboy, being charged by a huge horned hooking bull that was mad enough to finish the job he'd just started.

And don't forget that rope. The horse and the bull were still tied together by that rope.

And don't forget that the Head of Ranch Security had been wounded in action and was in no position to rush to anybody's defense. I mean, I was still trying to get my first breath. I was crippled and badly damaged and beaten to a pulp.

The bull waded into the wreckage and started working that poor colt over with his horns—and if you think the colt was “poor,” just think about what was underneath him: Slim.

Wham! Wham! Thud! Snort!

Oh, that bull had no mercy! Good grief, hadn't he done enough damage? Did he have to keep on beating on that poor colt with his horns?

By George, when I saw that, I started getting mad. I jacked myself up off the ground and yelled, “Drover, are you going to stand there and watch this outrage? What are you waiting for? Get your skinny, worthless little stub tail out here and draw some blood!”

“Well . . . you go first, Hank, and then I'll come.”

“I can't go first, you moron! I'm wounded and damaged beyond repair. We've got a cowboy on the ground and he needs help right now, and you're next in the chain of command. Attack, charge, Red Alert!”

“Oh my gosh! Well, I guess I can . . . I sure hope this old leg of mine . . .”

I'll give him credit for trying. He jumped out of the pickup and ran straight for the bull, yipping and squeaking. I'm sure the bull got a chuckle out of that—a sawed-off, stub-tailed squeakbox coming out on the field of battle to do something or other.

When Drover was about two feet away, the bull made a run at him. Drover not only changed directions in the blink of an eye, but he also destroyed half the sagebrush in that pasture, getting back to the pickup.

The bull watched this with his wicked, heartless eyes, and it even appeared to me that he was smirking. Then he turned back to his main source of entertainment, beating up on the colt.

By this time, the colt had wallowed to his feet. He was moon-eyed and trembling all over, waiting to see what this dragon of a bull would try to do to him next.

My eyes darted to Slim. He was lying facedown in the sand. He hadn't moved. I could see that he needed my help. I took a limping step in his direction and . . . well, Mr. Bull got the message across to me that I should sit down and shut up, so I, uh . . .

I sat down and shut up, so to speak.

I had felt a sinking spell coming on anyway.

Just taking those two steps had worn me to a frazzle.

And also, I needed to plan my next move.

Don't you see.

All at once Slim lifted his head and let out a groan. Boy, that was good news! There for a minute, I'd thought maybe . . . but no, he was still alive. He placed the palms of his hands on the ground and pushed himself up to a kneeling position.

Good heavens, I hardly even recognized him! His eyes and mouth had vanished, and his face had become a featureless white mask that . . .

Okay, that was mostly sand. His face had gotten mashed into the sand, see, and there for a second it had . . .

He brushed the sand off his face and let out another moan. He sat there for a moment, with his head hung down and his left hand resting on the right side of his rib cage. He blinked his eyes and looked at me.

“Well, Hank, we've got ourselves in a real jack­pot here.”

With great effort, I hobbled over to him and began administering special Certified Red Cross CPR licks to his face. Those Certified Licks will bring a guy around as fast as anything.

I had given him several before he pushed me away and said, “Quit.” Then he turned and studied Mr. Bull, who stood between us and the pickup. He was watching our every move and appeared to be thinking bad thoughts.

“Hank,” said Slim, setting his teeth against the pain, “I've messed up some ribs and maybe some more things too. I need to make it to the pickup and get back to the house. Reckon you can keep that bull off me?”

Uh . . . ME? Keep the . . . hey, I was injured pretty badly myself and I'd already learned about as much from that bull as I care to, and besides . . .

He put his hand on my head and rubbed my ears. “See, I might be messed up inside. That colt mashed me pretty bad. What do you say, can you help old Slim?”

I thought it over. Sure, I could help him.

Chapter Nine: This Is the Scary Part

H
olding his ribs and grinding his teeth against the pain, Slim pushed himself up. The bull was watching. He snorted and dropped his head and pawed up sand with his hoof.

Slim took a step. The bull's head shot up. I could tell by the look in his eyes and the way he held his ears that he was fixing to come a-hookin'.

Slim reached down and patted me on the neck. “Okay, son, it's time for us to find out what we're made of. See what you can do.”

It would be an exaggeration to say that I went streaking into the fight. I pushed myself up and hobbled out into the empty space between Slim and the bull. I glared at him and he glared at me. I raised the hair on my back, stiffened my tail, and extended my neck so that my nose was pointing at him like an arrow. And then I unleashed a low growl.

From the pickup, I heard Drover squeak, “Hank, be careful, he might try to hurt you!”

And then Little Alfred yelled, “Beat him up, Hankie! I hope you bite the snot out of him.”

Behind me, I heard Slim groan and take a step. The bull's head snapped around and his eyes locked on Slim. He had just picked his target. He took a step toward Slim, and that's when I gave him some education on cowdogs.

A lot of dogs would have barked and gone through a little warmup procedure. Not me. I figgered what we needed here was a strong and lasting impression. When you want to make an impression on a bull, you don't bark and you don't bluff and you don't talk. You merely take a death grip on his nose and hang on.

And so I rushed forward, fitted my jaws around his nose before he had time to think about it, and then I went to Maximum Crunch.

Say, Old Bully didn't like that! He snorted and bellered and started slinging his head around. Since I was pretty well attached to his nose, he was slinging me around at the same time.

I went up, I went down, I went in circles, I bounced off the ground and bounced off his horns and bounced off that big ugly hump in his neck. And yes, all this bouncing and crashing around did take its toll on my body, but the thought of slacking my grip on his nose never entered my mind.

What DID enter my mind after several minutes of this trashing was that I might not live long enough to brag about this adventure. I was taking a terrible beating, but I knew that as long as I held on to his nose, I had a chance to survive. If he ever shook me off, then he could go to work on me with his horns, and fellers . . .

Maybe my jaws got tired. Maybe he gave his head an extra hard jerk. I don't remember. I mean, things were happening pretty fast out there. But all at once, the very worst thing that could have happened happened. He broke my hold on his nose and threw me off.

I hit the ground hard, and before I could make another move, he was there on top of me—beating me, pounding me, mauling me with those huge horns. Left! Right! Left! Right!

I squalled for help but there wasn't any help. Oh, Drover was yipping from underneath the pickup, and Little Alfred yelled for the bull to “weave my doggie awone,” as I recall his words. And that was about all the help I got.

The blows hurt at first, but after a while I didn't feel much pain. With each blow from a horn, my head snapped around and I could hear a crunching sound deep inside my body, but there wasn't much pain anymore.

I felt myself slipping away into a dream, as darkness gathered around the edges of my vision. The circle of darkness grew larger, and the circle of light in the center shrank down to a tiny hole.

What I could see through that hole was what was left of my life. I watched as it slipped away from me. I kind of hated to see it go, but this was the way I'd always wanted it to be. I'd always wanted to go out fighting for my ranch.

Just before the light went out for the last time, I got some help from an unexpected source. While all this had been going on, that colt hadn't moved a muscle. He'd stood nearby, shivering and watching all the bloodshed with his big moon eyes.

Well, all at once something must have spooked him, because he took off running and bucking, and when he hit the end of that rope, he did get Mr. Bull's full attention. It jerked both of them down on the ground.

Bully didn't like that even a little bit, and when he got to his feet, he'd already decided to eat him a colt for supper. He dropped his head and charged. The colt screamed, jumped to his feet, and started hauling the mail.

Say, that was something to see, those two heavy­weights tied together on the same piece of string. First the bull jerked down the colt, then the colt jerked down the bull. Then they both went down.

I mean, it looked like total disaster there for a while, but then they jerked the horn plumb out of Slim's saddle. That nylon rope was stretched like a rubber band, and when the horn pulled out, it flew back and whopped old Bully right between the eyes.

And all at once it was over. The bull staggered away with blood dripping out of his nose. The colt bucked a few more times and nickered, and then he went to the trailer and stood there. And the dust that had filled the air began to settle around us.

Dust and silence.

Next thing I knew, Drover and Little Alfred were there beside me. Tears and dust had streaked the boy's face. He went down on his knees and threw his arms around me and hugged me a whole bunch harder than I wanted to be hugged right then.

It hurt and I yelped.

“Hankie, get up. We have to take Swim home.” I tried to stand up but couldn't do it. “Huuwy, get up! We have to go home.” I tried it again. Couldn't do it. “All wight, I'll have to pick you up.”

He tried to carry me to the pickup but that didn't work. He just wasn't stout enough, and even if he had been, I couldn't have stood the pain.

Just then we heard Slim's voice. He had managed to crawl into the cab of the pickup and was sitting on the passenger's side, with his head propped up on his hand.

“Button, come here.” The boy went over to the pickup. That left me alone with Mister Day-Late-and-Dollar-Short.

“Gosh, Hank, are you hurt pretty bad?”

“As bad as I need to be, thanks.”

“You're welcome. I sure meant to come out and help you, but when that bull . . . did you see how big and ugly he was?”

“No, I wasn't close enough to get a good look at him, Drover. Was he pretty big and ugly?”

“He was terrible, just terrible! I came out to help you, honest I did, but then he . . . I just . . . oh Hank, I feel so guilty! I don't know if I can stand myself anymore!”

“You'll find a way, Drover. I've got confidence in you.”

“Don't say that! Don't be nice to me, I don't deserve it. Tell me I'm worthless and chickenhearted. Tell me I'm a failure. Tell me I should stand in the corner for the rest of my life.”

“I would, son, but it hurts to talk.”

“Oh, this guilt is more than I can stand! You can't believe how much it hurts me to see you hurt. If there's anything I can do, Hank, anything at all, just tell me.”

“Okay, be quiet. I want to hear how Slim's going to get us out of this mess.”

“Sure, Hank, just anything. I'll be quiet, but I want you to know that . . .”

“Hush.”

He hushed and I listened to what Slim was saying.

“Button, here's what's got to be done. We've got to get me home and I can't drive. If I put the pickup in Grandma Low, reckon you can steer it back home?”

“Me, dwive the pickup? I don't think so, Swim.”

“Sure you can. You did it coming up here. Just keep it in the road, that's all, and if anything goes wrong, turn off the key.”

“Well, maybe. I can twy.”

“Good boy. Now, I want you to walk over to that colt, real quiet and slow, and catch his reins. Then lead him over here as close to the pickup door as you can.”

“But Swim . . .”

“Don't be scared, Button. He was acting crazy because that bull was trying to hurt him. He'll be all right. Just be smooth and don't make any sudden moves. Talk gentle to him. Go on.”

Alfred looked pretty scared when he walked up to the colt, but he did just as Slim told him. The colt's eyes got big when he saw the kid coming toward him, and he had rollers in his nose, but he stood his ground. Alfred caught the reins and led him over to the pickup.

Slim reached out the window and unbuckled the cinches: back cinch, front cinch, and breast collar. “Button, there's one more buckle and I can't reach it. It's under his chest, where the breast collar hooks into the front cinch. You'll have to get it.”

Slim held the reins and talked to the horse while Alfred reached under and unbuckled the strap. “Good boy. Now, step back. I'm going to turn him a-loose.”

Slim unhooked the throat latch and slipped the bridle off the colt's head. As the colt turned to leave, Slim grabbed the saddle and let it fall to the ground.

The effort of doing all that seemed to wear him out. He leaned his head back against the cab and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he said, “Let's go, Button.”

“What about Hankie?”

“For now, we'll have to leave him. I hate it as much as you do, but we've got no choice.”

HUH?

Leave me alone in that big lonesome pasture? Holy smokes, night would be coming in a few hours and hungry coyotes would be out looking for a meal, and
they were going to drive off and
leave me there?