Free The Case of the Swirling Killer Tornado by John R. Erickson Page A

or down. Maybe the tornado didn’t like our music. But something happened, and the next thing we knew, the tornado had spit us out, so to speak, and we found ourselves, all four of us, blown into the topmost branches of a huge cotton­wood tree.
    And this was a normal cottonwood, the kind with its roots in the ground on Planet Earth. The tornado went roaring away, and suddenly we found ourselves surrounded by total silence.
    Wallace broke the silence with his hacksaw voice. “Junior, where are we at?”
    â€œW-w-well, I d-don’t know, P-pa, but I th-think w-w-w-we’re out of the t-t-t-tornado, th-thank g-g-goodness.”
    â€œIt was a cyclone, son.”
    â€œT-t-tornado.”
    â€œCyclone.”
    â€œT-t-t-tornado.”
    â€œSon, it was a cyclone but never mind because we have survived, which is wonderful news, but I wonder if them two dogs might have suffered a . . . you know, we ain’t had full grub in several days, Junior, and why don’t we check on our buddies and see.”
    â€œSorry, Wallace,” I said. “We’re over here and doing fine, and we sure appreciate your concern.”
    He heaved a sigh and gave his head a shake. “A buzzard is always an optimist and that’s why we get our hearts broke so many times. All right, Junior, we’ve had all the fun I can stand, it’s time to get airborne and hunt grub.”
    â€œIt was fun, Wallace.”
    â€œFun for you, puppy dog, ’cause you’ve got nothing better to do than to goof off and sing silly songs, but we buzzards get paid by the job, yes we do, and no workie, no eat. Come on, Junior, my belly button’s rubbin’ a hole in my backbone.”
    He pushed himself off the limb and went flapping off into the darkness. Junior grinned and waved a wing good-bye and said, “W-w-well, s-s-see you n-next t-t-time, d-d-doggie.” And then he flew away, leaving Drover and me alone with our thoughts—and with a pretty serious problem.
    See, you might have thought our story had reached a happy ending, but that’s not the case. Yes, we had just ridden a wild bucking tornado completely into the ground, and yes, we had even managed to spend a couple of hours in Sally May’s house without getting ourselves strangled or shot.
    Not bad for one night’s work, but now we faced another stern challenge: We were hung up in the topmost branches of a very large cottonwood. And in case you didn’t know, we dogs are not tree­climbers. We don’t climb up trees, and we don’t climb down trees either.
    And to make matters even worse, we had no idea where we and that tree were located. We might have been in Oklahoma or Kansas or Nebraska, for all I knew, which means that this story might end with us . . .
    Gee whiz, just think about the terrible possibilities. We might starve to death in the top of the tree, or fall to our deaths below, or become orphans and vagabonds in a strange location.
    And this is Chapter Twelve and we’re running out of time and space to come up with a happy ending.
    Pretty sad, huh? You bet it was but don’t give up yet.
    With nothing better to do, we hung onto our respective branches, and I mean hung on for dear life. We got zero sleep and I had to listen to Drover whimper, cry, squeak, and moan for the rest of the night.
    Then, at last, I saw the faint glow of morning appear on the eastern horizon. Knowing that the sun could not possibly rise without a good stern barking from the Head of Ranch Security, I was forced to perform this crucial task from the top of the tree.
    I mean, if we didn’t get that sun barked up, fellers, we might have been stranded in total dark­ness for days or weeks. So I did my duty and barked it up, and whilst I was in the midst of my Bark Up the Sun Procedure, what do you suppose I heard?
    A door slam. Then a voice . . . a voice that sounded slightly familiar . . . a man’s voice which said, if I can