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

remember the exact quotation, which said, “Shut up, you idiot dog!”
    HUH?
    My goodness, that voice sounded quite a bit like Slim’s, and then I glanced down and noticed a house down there on the ground, and a tall skinny man, wearing nothing but underpants and boots, standing out on the porch.
    Holy smokes, that was Slim the Cowboy! The tornado had carried us two miles down the creek and deposited us in that big cottonwood right in front of Slim’s house—what a terrific struck of loke—and all at once I was filled with joy and began barking with all my heart and soul.
    Stroke of luck.
    And Drover added a few squeaks. His squeaking and my massive barking made just enough noise to draw Slim’s soggy red eyes away from ground level and up to the top of the tree.
    And at last, yippee, he saw us there! His eyes popped open and his jaw dropped several inches.
    And he said—this is an exact quote—he said, “Good honk, I’ve got huge barkin’ squirrels in my tree, where’s my gun!”
    No, no! We weren’t squirrels! It was us, Hank and Drover, his loyal dogs.
    Okay, it appeared that he was joking. You know Slim and his warped cowboy sense of humor. It gave me a little scare.
    Well, he got a big laugh out of our miserable condition. Yes, while we were up there, clinging for dear life to branches that were rolling like ocean waves in the wind, he got big chuckles.
    But suddenly the laughter stopped. He scratched his head and squinted up at us and said, “Hmmm. I wonder how a guy goes about rescuin’ two ranch mutts from the top of a cotton­wood, ’cause I ain’t fixing to climb up there myself. Hmmm.”

    How did he do it? Well, he called Loper on the phone and Loper came. He had spent most of the night in the cellar, so you can imagine how glad he was to see us dogs up in Slim’s tree.
    Not glad. Much grumbling and muttering.
    But by then he and Slim had figured out how we got there and were ready to call it a good deal. I mean, the tornado hadn’t killed anyone or destroyed any ranch property, so they decided to count their blessings.
    They got us down, but it was no instant rescue. It took ’em several hours and it ended up involving several of the neighbors, chainsaws, ropes, ladders, and a windmill repair truck with a telescoping crane.
    Loper had to pay two hours of rig time on Jay Cox’s windmill truck, but I’m sure he considered it a huge bargain. He got his dogs back, that was the important thing.
    Well, we had dodged another bullet and had . . . oh, I almost forgot. Sally May never did learn the Awful Truth, that her little stinkpot son had let us into the house that night. But I heard through the grapevine, so to speak, that she found fleas in Alfred’s bed.
    They weren’t mine.
    Anyways, it was a great moment in history when Drover and I finally made it back to headquarters and to our gunnysack beds, which is where this had all started, with me and Drover trying to catch a few winks of sleep between assignments.
    And that was exactly what I planned to do now. After saving the ranch from the Swirling Killer Tornado, I figured I was entitled to a few winks.
    I had just about drifted off into a pleasant dream about Miss Beulah the Collie when I heard Drover’s voice.
    â€œHank, are you awake?”
    â€œMurk snork not if I can help it.”
    â€œI was just thinking. Remember that song I wrote about barking at a funnel-shaped cloud? It turned out just that way. We really barked at one. Do you reckon I can see into the future? Gosh, maybe I’m a prophet or something.”
    I raised my head and managed to open both eyes a crack. “Drover, one of the great challenges we face in this life is trying to distinguish between prophecy and indigestion. Yours was indigestion. Good night.”
    â€œIt’s the middle of the day.”
    â€œShut your trap.”
    â€œGood night, Hank.”
    And with