The Case of the Swirling Killer Tornado (2 page)

Chapter Two: The Scrambled Egg Mystery

D
id I say that we went streaking up the hill?

I
went streaking up the hill. I ran. I threw my entire heart and soul into the effort. Drover, on the other hand, limped and lollygagged, cried and complained every step of the way.

But we did manage to establish a position near the yard gate. There, I halted the column and prepared our defense of the ranch.

Most of the time, our spring storms track from the southwest to the northeast, and they usually occur in the late afternoon. In other words, a guy can see them building up and can prepare for them.

This one was different. It was one of those sneaky storms that build up after dark and come rolling in after everyone has gone to bed.

The first sign of trouble is the twinkle of distant lightning in the distance. Then the wind will rise, and most generally it's a moist wind. Then a guy will begin to hear grumbles of thunder, and by that time, fellers, you'd better be in Battle Stations.

We were. We'd made it just in time. I marched back and forth in front of the troops.

“All right, men, we've seen the enemy. At first glance, he appears to be huge and awesome, but I want to remind you that he puts on his pants just the way we do. Any questions?”

Drover raised his paw. “If we don't wear pants, can we go hide in the machine shed?”

“No. The pants business was just a figure of speech, Drover, and I'd be grateful if you'd try to be more serious.”

“I am serious. I'm seriously scared of storms.”

“Yes, and that's one of your problems. You're too serious about everything. You have no sense of humor. Any more questions?” Drover raised his paw. “Yes? You in the back.”

“What should we do with the wounded?”

I continued pacing. “The wounded. Good question. I hadn't actually worked through that one, but yes, we need to have a contagency plan for the wounded. Hmmm. Okay, here we go. We'll have to establish a field hospital in the machine shed and try to get the wounded in there as soon as possible.”

“Got it. See you around.”

If I hadn't stopped the little mutt, he would have gone streaking to the machine shed. “Hold it, stop right there, halt. You're not excused, and where do you think you're going?”

“Well, I was fixing to rush me to the hospital.”

“We haven't even barked a shot yet.”

“Yeah, but this old leg is just tearing me up.”

“Soldier, I'm fixing to tear up another part of your anatomy if you don't hold your position. We're in Battle Stations and the enemy is approaching. Get back to your post, and that's a direct order.”

“Oh darn.”

“And I will not tolerate cursing and swearing in this outfit.”

“Oh drat.”

“There you go again. For cursing and swearing in the line of duty, you get three Shame-on-You's.”

“Oh phooey.”

“Make that six, Drover. You want to go for nine?”

“Sure, might as well.”

“Okay, pal, you want to buck the system and be a little rebel, so you're up to nine Shame-on-You's.”

“Oh fiddle.”

“There's twelve. How about fifteen? You want to shoot for bigger numbers, huh? We've got time. Go ahead, get it out of your system.”

“I thought I was bucking the system.”

“You're bucking against life, Drover.”

“I knew a bucking horse one time.”

“Yes, and what did it get him? He bucked and he bucked and he bucked, and what did it get him? Tell me.”

“Well, he pitched Slim through the saddle shed door.”

“Exactly. And do you see what all this means?”

“Not really.”

“It means . . . it means that you have twelve Shame-on-You's on your record. Do you want to go for fifteen?”

“No, I'm out of naughty words.”

“Good. Twelve's bad enough. If you ever try to get another ranch job, those Shame-on-You's will be on your record. Everyone will know what a rot­ten little mutt you really are, and do you think anybody will offer you a job?”

“I wouldn't.”

“Neither would I, Drover. In fact, with your lousy record, I'm not sure you have a place in our Security Division. How does that make you feel?”

“Can I go to the machine shed?”

“No.”

“Shucks.”

“There's eighteen, Drover. You keep piling them up.”

“I think it's only fifteen.”

“Fifteen, eighteen, what's the difference?”

“Columbus discovered America in 1518.”

“Yes, and the reason he discovered America was that he didn't stand around cursing and swearing. He sailed his ships. He studied the stars. He wrote in his log.”

“Slim burns logs in his stove.”

“That's exactly my point, Drover. Do you want to burn logs or sail across the ocean?”

“Well . . . I don't like water.”

“Exactly. And if you continue this pattern of foul language, you'll spend your whole life . . . hmmm, was that a raindrop?”

“I think it was the ocean.”

“What?”

“Columbus sailed across the ocean, but at the end of every ocean there's a pot of raindrops.”

I walked several steps away and gazed off at the approaching storm. I took a deep breath and let the wind blow my ears around.

“Drover, I must tell you something.”

“Sure, anything.”

“Sometimes I think the stress of this job is too much for me. I . . . I'll be honest. Now and then I feel that . . . that the things I'm saying . . . just don't make sense.”

“I'll be derned.”

“Please don't curse and swear.”

“Sorry. I won't be derned. I'll never be derned.”

“Thanks. I hope you mean that.”

“Oh, I do.”

“Good. Drover, sometimes . . . sometimes I have this, this strange sensation that . . . my mind is a bowl of scrambled eggs. Have you ever had that feeling?”

“Boy, I love eggs.”

“I know, but I'm talking about the sensation of scrambled eggs. Have you ever felt that your entire life, all your thought processes, your plans and dreams . . . were coming out of a bowl of scrambled eggs?”

“Well, let's see. Nope, never have.”

“Hmmm. Just as I thought. It's this job, the crushing responsibility, the ozone we breathe day after day at the top of the mountain.”

I heaved a deep sigh, walked back to Drover, and laid a paw on his shoulder.

“I'm glad we've had this opportunity to chat. It's so seldom that I get to, well, chat with the men.”

“Yeah, or even with us dogs.”

“Exactly.” I gazed up at the stars which were now covered with thick clouds and were therefore invisible. “The hour is late, Drover, and the night is dark. What are we doing here by the yard gate?”

“Well, let's see. I don't remember. Do you reckon we're waiting for scraps?”

“Maybe so, although I don't remember Sally May ever bringing out scraps in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, and if she's not going to bring out scraps, it doesn't make much sense for us to be waiting for them. I guess.”

“Good point, son. Maybe we should go back to bed.”

“Boy, I can go for that.”

“I don't know about you, but I'm worn to a frazzle, completely bushed. This patrol work is a dog-killer. We've earned a rest.”

And with that, we made our respective ways down the caliche hill and to our gunnysack beds beneath the gas tanks. We had hardly seen those beds in the past forty-eight hours.

I fluffed up my gunnysack, walked around it three times, and collapsed. The bone-deep fatigue that had gripped me moments before seemed to rise like a helium balloon and float out through a window in the top of my snork, murking the porkchop snicklefritz.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Chapter Three: Headquarters Is Attacked by Charlie Monsters

T
he mortar and cannon fire began shortly after one o'clock. Two o'clock. We had no clock so we weren't sure when the enemy began his merciless artillery barrage.

Suddenly shells were falling all around us—mortars, bazookas, 83's, 44's. Charlie was throwing everything he had into this bombardment.

I heard the artillery shells falling in the distance but my sleeping mind tried to ignore them. I mean, my poor body was SO exhausted from over­work and lack of sleep and so forth, SO EXHAUSTED that it cried out and begged for just one more minute of precious sleep.

But as the shelling moved closer to our com­mand post, I found it impossible and impossibler to ignore the obvious: that Headquarters had come under a withering attack. And when a shell from one of Charlie's big 88's ripped through a tree near­by, I was forced to leave the scented vapors of sleep and rally the troops for battle.

KA-BOOOM!

But just a word here about my use of technical military terms, such as “Charlie's big 88's.” I realize that most people and dogs aren't accustomed to using such heavy-duty terms, which is fine be­cause most people and dogs don't have a need for such a complex and ultra-secret method of com­munication.

The fact that we do—WE meaning those of us who are involved every day in security work—the fact that we use these extremely complicated and secret words doesn't necessarily mean that the rest of you are . . . how can I say this?

It doesn't necessarily mean that you're too dumb to understand, although . . . you're just busy with other things, that's all, so let's go to the blackboard and learn some of these special words and terms.

First off, we have the word “Charlie.” Charlie is a common name, often used for people, horses, and even a few dogs. But when WE in the Security Business use the word, it means—pay close attention to this next part—it means The Enemy.

Exactly who is this enemy? We're never sure. All we can say for sure is that the Charlies are the guys behind those big 88's.

And that brings us to the next major term in our list of major terms. “88” is actually a shortened version of the longer version of the name of what it is, and what it is is a huge enormous gun.

A cannon. A huge cannon so big and awesome that the south end isn't even connected to the north end. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration. I mean, it's hard to imagine something so huge that the two ends . . .

It's big, that's the point, real big, and it shoots an arterial shell that is also very large, and we're talking about something as big as, oh, a trash barrel. Or maybe as big as a pickup. Or a whole house.

In other words, really really big and huge and enormous, and that's why those shells make such a loud noise when they come crashing down to earth.

Perhaps you think I've forgotten the most important part of this heavy-duty discussion of technical terms—what the number “88” means. No, I didn't forget, not at all. I was saving it for last because, well, I get a kick out of tossing out those names and numbers which mean nothing to everybody else.

It gives me a thrill.

Okay, let's go public with it. There are several ways of looking at “88,” and the interesting thing is that it looks pretty muchly the same whether you look at it right-side-up or wrong-side-down.

You don't believe me? Try it. See, I told you.

Another way of approaching this mystery is that if you add the two numbers together, that is, 8 + 8, you get 17. No, scratch that. You get 16. 8 + 8 = 16. That sounds better. You get 16, and do you know what that means?

It means nothing. Charlie does this to confuse us, don't you see. He knows that our intelligence officers are working day and night to break his codes, and so he does things to foul up our systems.

They're very clever. Never underestimate the cunning of the Charlies.

They never sleep, those guys, but neither do we.

It's a constant game of cat and mouse.

Where was I? Oh yes, the mysterious double meaning of “88.” We have shown that “88” has no double meaning, that it's just another of Charlie's tricks, which leaves us with just one stern untoned.

Stone unturned.

If “88” has no double meaning, does it have a single meaning? Good question, and the answer is yes. The complete technical term for this huge artillery piece is “Oldsmobile 88.” In the heat of battle, we shorten that to “88,” and there you are.

It takes a lot of time to explain all this stuff but we think it's pretty derned important.

Anyways, the barrage had begun and the 88's were falling like rain all around our bunker, and you never heard such a deafening roar. Perhaps I had drifted off into a light, uh, slumbering mode, not really sleep, and when the first 88 landed nearby, I leaped to my feet and sounded the alarm.

Actually, I ran into the angle iron leg of the gas tanks and did some pretty serious damage to the old nose, but then I began shouting the alarm.

“Drover, Battle Stations! Red Alert! They're coming, they're on the outskirts of the city! Head­quarters is being overrun by thousands and thousands of little green Charlies!”

Drover flew out of his gunnysack and began running in circles—squeaking. “Oh my gosh, help, murder, monsters, where's my leg!”

Just then, there was a blinding flash of light and a window-rattling explosion. And Drover went down.

I rushed to his side. “Drover, speak to me. I think you've been hit.”

“I can't speak, I've been hit!”

“That's okay. Save your strength. Don't try to talk. Where does it hurt?”

“Well, let's see. Here and here and here, and there too.”

“Sounds pretty bad, son, but of course I can't see all those wounds because it's very dark. Can you be more specific?”

“I'll try, Hank, I'll give it my best shot, but the pain's terrible.”

“I understand but don't try to talk. Just tell me where the pain is located.”

“Which one?”

“I don't know, Drover, just pick a pain and tell me where it's located.”

“Well, it seems to be coming from . . .”

“Yes, yes?”

“The pain, the terrible pain seems to be . . . in my leg.”

“Uh-oh. That's the very worst kind.”

“Yeah, and maybe we'd better rush me up to the machine shed.”

“Hmmm. You could be right. Can you make it on your own or do I need to carry you?”

Another incoming shell lit up the night and shook the earth. KA-BOOOOOOM!

Drover squeaked. “Well, I can try to make it, but I may have to limp.”

“That's okay, soldier. Out here on the front lines, nobody would dare laugh at you because you have a limp.”

He limped around in a circle and . . . for some reason, it struck me as funny and I found myself . . . laughing, you might say. I know. It was crazy, but I couldn't help it.

He gave me a hurtful look. “Are you laughing at me?”

“What? Laughing at . . . don't be absurd, Drover. I've already ha ha told you that hee hee nobody would dare ho ho . . .”

KA-BLOOOOEY! KA-BOOM! KA-BAM!

The roar of incoming artillery pretty muchly took care of the funny business, and to make mat­ters even worse, the wind was rising and rain was coming down in sheets and buckets.

What lousy luck, to get a rainstorm right on top of an Enemy attack. All at once this was no laughing matter, no matter how ridiculous Drover looked limping around, and the time had come for us to run for our lives.

“Drover, we've got to make a run for it. They've stormed headquarters and now it's every dog for himself!”

“Oh my gosh, which way's the machine shed?”

“Forget the machine shed. We'd better retreat to the house and sound the alarm. Come on, son, to the yard gate!”

“Oh my gosh, what about my limp?”

“Bring it along. You might need it.”

And with that, our sad little column abandoned Command Post One and staggered up the hill, against wind and pouring rain and incredible odds. No ordinary dog could have led his troops up that hill, but somehow I managed to do it.

We halted at the yard gate. Shells were exploding all around us. The yard gate was shut.

“Drover,” I yelled over the wind and rain, “this gate is shut. Can you jump the fence?”

“I don't think so, Hank. This old leg is just barely hanging on.”

“Okay, here's the plan. I'll jump the fence and make a dash for the porch. You hold this position as long as you can, and if you get captured by the Charlie Monsters . . .”

“You know, it's feeling a little better now. I'll give it a try.”

“Okay, trooper. See you at the porch, and good luck.”

I coiled my legs under me and went flying over the fence, landed on the other side, and sprinted across the yard to the safety of the porch. And I'll be derned, Drover was already there—dripping rainwater and shivering.

“Nice work, son, but we don't have a minute to spare. We've got to sound the alarm and warn Sally May and Loper. I'll bark and you moan. Ready? Let 'er rip!”

And with that, we threw ourselves into the very dangerous task of moaning, barking, and warning our friends that the Charlie Monsters had invaded our ranch.