The Case of the Three Rings (4 page)

“There it is, Slimbo, that's how you gather a buffalo.”

Well! We had finished our job. Winkie was safe in the barn, I was alone in the pickup, and my reason for staying cooped up had just expired. See, I'd been in there a long time and all at once I had begun to notice…well, “the call of nature,” as Slim would say.

Uncle Johnny had been kind enough to leave the window down on the driver's side, so I hopped up on the window ledge, balanced myself for a few seconds, and made a graceful dive to the ground.

There, I made a dash to the left front tire and gave it a thorough sniffing. While I worked, I listened to the men talking in the distance. They were fifty yards away, but I could hear their voices as clear as a bell.

Uncle Johnny said, “Didn't I tell you it would be easy as pie?”

“I admit I had some doubts.”

“With buffalo, it's all about how you approach ‘em. You can't crowd ‘em, see, ‘cause when a buffalo don't want to be somewhere, he won't be there for long.”

“I see,” said Slim. “And how do they feel about barns?”

“Slim, as long as I keep hay and water in there…”

I didn't hear the rest of Uncle Johnny's Lesson on Buffaloes, and neither did anyone else, because at that very moment, his voice got lost in a loud CRASH. It was so loud, I jumped two feet in the air and, well, sent Secret Encoding Fluid spraying in all directions.

I whirled around, looked toward the barn, and witnessed an incredible spectacle.

Chapter Six: Maybe I Shouldn't Have Barked

S
omething large, brown, and shaggy had just walked out of the barn, and it appeared to be WEARING HALF OF THE BARN DOOR ON HIS HEAD!

Have you figured it out? That was Winkie, Uncle Johnny's pet buffalo, and I guess he didn't like staying in the barn. He'd walked right through the overhead door and had a big section of sheet metal skewered on his horns. He was as blind as a bat and tossing his head to get rid of the piece of the door that was stuck to his horns.

But that was only the first part of the drama. The second part was…can you imagine what a young horse would think if he saw a buffalo clanking around with a barn door on his head?

Socks was pretty calm by nature and had a nice, quiet disposition under ordinary circumstances, but he got over that real quick. When he saw Winkie clanking around and coming towards him, he lost his mind. His ears shot up, his eyes bugged out, he snorted and ran sideways, flattened Aunt Marybelle's yard fence, and went to bucking like a National Finals bronc—through the yard and around the house.

Well, you know me. When my cowboy gets caught in a storm, I don't just stand around looking simple. I hit Turbo Six and went streaking up the road to the barn, but you'll be proud to know that I didn't bark. See, when a horse blows up, a barking dog very seldom helps the situation.

Oh, and don't forget what Uncle Johnny had said: Winkie wasn't fond of dogs, so I, uh, felt this would be a good time to keep silent.

Anyway, Socks bucked across the front lawn and was heading round the south side of the house. The front door flew open and out stepped Aunt Marybelle, Uncle Johnny's wife. She stared in open-mouth amazement and let out a scream. “Slim Chance, get that horse out of my yard!” Then a look of horror came over her face. “Slim, watch out for the clothesline!”

Uh oh. All eyes turned toward the north side of the house where a bunch of wet clean clothes were flapping on two clotheslines. Have we ever discussed horses and clotheslines? Bad combination. You should never ride a bucking horse through a yard with a clothesline.

But this deal had moved way beyond Slim's control. He had a double handful of bronc and was doing well just to stay aboard. He was making a good ride, but this appeared to be one of those situations when a cowboy can't decide if he's better off staying in the saddle or getting bucked off.

When he disappeared around the back side of the house, he was still ahorseback and for several seconds I lost visual contact. I could hear some amazing snorts and grunts coming from Socks, and Slim yelling, “Whoa, Socks, easy boy!” When they came around the northeast corner of the house, Slim was still aboard…and Socks was highballing it straight toward the clotheslines.

He hit them with a full head of steam. Wires snapped, clothes flapped, and Slim's horse came out wearing the whole mess. He looked like a float in a parade and was pitching harder than ever. Right before he flattened another section of the yard fence, Marybelle screeched, “Watch out for my fence!”

Well, that was a good suggestion. It just didn't work out too well.

By this time, Socks had left the yard and had gotten back to the gravel drive in front of the barn. He was dragging two strands of clothesline wire and all of Marybelle's laundry, and he had somebody's denim work shirt draped over his face. That might have been the only thing that saved Slim from a terrible fate.

See, the horse was spooked out of his mind but also blinded by the shirt, and instead of bucking some more, he stopped in his tracks. For several seconds, nobody moved. Socks was trembling all over and heaving for air. So was Slim, and his face had turned the color of chalk.

It was an eerie moment. As quiet as a mouse, Slim swung his right leg over the cantle and stepped out of the saddle. He staggered a couple of steps, blinked his eyes, and checked to see if he had lost his hat. Of course he had. It had come off on the first jump.

He reached for the Leatherman tool he carried in a little pouch on his belt. It was the kind device that folded out into several tools: a pair of pliers, two sizes of screwdriver, a file, a little saw blade, and a can opener. He used the pliers to cut the clothesline wire and started removing laundry from the horse. He talked in a quiet voice and gave Socks a pat now and then, and the horse stood still, but shaking all over. When Slim removed the shirt from the horse's face, he heaved a sigh of relief.

Whew! It appeared that the ordeal was over, and boy, what a wreck it had been.

Well, this seemed a good time for me to step in and take charge of the situation, and what could be more important than finding and retrieving Slim's hat? You know how these cowboys are about their hats. Without a hat, they feel undressed, out of costume, you might say, and I was pretty sure that Slim would be thrilled if I showed up with his hat.

It might even earn me a free turkey neck. I wasn't wild about his turkey necks and they were no substitute for a good steak, but those neck bones were pleasant to chew and in hard times, I'll never turn down a turkey neck.

So I made a dash to the yard, where his hat lay in the grass. With care and tenderness, I picked it up in my powerful jaws. If an ordinary mutt had attempted this, he would have left tooth tracks on the brim, and maybe slobber marks too. Not me. Hey, cowdogs understand cowboys, and the first thing you need to know about a cowboy is
don't mess with his hat
.

You can spill paint on his clothes, shave his head, hide his boots, burn his house down, and wreck his pickup, but
don't mess with his hat
. Your average cowboy spends a lot of time, shaping that hat so that it tells the world…to be honest, I'm not sure what it tells the world, but he's very fussy about the tilt of the brim and the crease in the crown. If you change the shape a cowboy's hat, you're shopping for trouble.

I knew that, so in picking up Slim's hat, I exercised the greatest of care and handled it as though it were a crown made of gold. His face bloomed into a smile when he saw me trotting toward him, a loyal cowdog delivering his master's most treasured possession.

“Well, look at this! Thanks, pooch.” He took the hat, turned it around, and gave it a close inspection. “But next time, try not to slobber on it.”

What? I did not slobber on it! In fact, I had gone to great lengths NOT to slobber on it. What does it take to please these people? I was so outraged, I barked.

Oops.

There was a moment of dead silence. Then I heard…yipes…I heard this grunting sound, and we're talking about grunts that were DEEP and powerful and so creepy that the hair stood up on the back of my neck. At first I thought it might have been a train or a bulldozer, but…no, that wasn't likely.

Gulp. I had a feeling that…you know, in all the excitement of Slim's bronc ride, I had more or less forgotten what had started it: Winkie, with the barn door on his horns. I think the men had forgotten too, but that rumble of grunts sent all our heads snapping around.

Winkie had been standing behind us the whole time and hadn't made a peep or moved a hair, but now…gulp…he began to stir. And all at once, in the back of my mind, I saw this flashing sign that said: “
Maybe you shouldn't have barked
.”

It appeared that Winkie had gotten tired of wearing the overhead door, and to get rid of it, he proceeded to give his head several powerful shakes. There is nothing subtle about a buffalo bull and everything he does has an exaggerated effect. Winkie had a big head that was connected to a huge muscular neck, and when he shook his head, he was also tossing around a six-foot-by-three-foot panel of sheet metal—I mean, like a cat shaking a mouse.

At that point, things happened in a blur. The sheet metal flew off Winkie's horns and landed right in front of Socks, who had just recovered from his first nervous breakdown and went straight into his second. His eyeballs grew as big as pies, his ears went to the top of the flagpole, and fellers, he sold out—tore the reins out of Slim's hand and bucked a straight line into the barn.

I had just gotten over that surprise when I noticed…WINKIE WAS STARING AT ME…and he was making those deep grunting noises again and…yipes, shoveling up dirt with his front hooves.

Have you ever been stared at by a buffalo? There is nothing in those eyes that a dog wants to see. We're talking about cold black eyes that can freeze your gizzard.

In the spooky silence, Uncle Johnny whispered, “Slim, you'd better move away from the dog. I have an idea that Winkie's fixing to come uncorked.”

Slim began backing away from me. The grunting sound in Winkie's throat had turned into a rumble of thunder and I could hear his front hooves tearing the ground like a backhoe and…

You know, at once I felt…well, very exposed, and when a dog is seized by the impulse of fear, he naturally wants to…well, seek the warmth and companionship of his human friends. Drawing my tail up between my legs, I began edging toward…

“Hank, get away from me!”

…the man I had loved and admired for so many years.

“Meathead, get back!”

You know, there's a very special bond between a cowboy and his dog. I mean, we guard his porch, ride in his pickup, sleep in his bed, drink out of his commode, share his sorrows…

“Hank!”

Why was he backing away from me, and screeching? Hey, that buffalo had a BAD look in his eyes and I needed a friend and a place to hide, so I went to Full Flames on all engines and took refuge behind…uh…the legs of my friend.