Free The Case of the Midnight Rustler by John R. Erickson

enough of a blow to cause Brewster to grunt and look around. “Hey, fella, take it easy, I’ve got a bad back.” And just as though he were shooing a fly away, he threw an elbow that landed under Snort’s chin and knocked him tail-over-teakettle out into the pasture.
    Brew turned back to me and sniffed his nose. “Who are those guys? I never saw ’em before.”
    I dragged myself off the ground. “Just a couple of junior thugs who thought they were pretty tough until they tangled with you. And me, of course. We make a pretty awesome team, Brew.”
    â€œThanks, Hank.”
    â€œI could have whipped ’em but it would have taken me a lot longer if you hadn’t come along. You . . . that is, WE sure cleaned house on those guys.”
    â€œYou mean . . . that was a fight?”
    â€œOh, just a little altercation, nothing to write home about.”
    â€œI don’t much go in for fightin’.”
    â€œYeah, well, the way you operate, you probably don’t get a whole lot of practice.”
    â€œNo sir, I don’t believe in violence. Heck, if you can’t work things out by talking, you ought to just walk away from it, is how I’ve always looked at it.”
    â€œRight.”
    I crept to the top of the hill and studied the situation down below. The rustler had finished closing in the corral with the portable panels and had made himself a little chute that led into the trailer. He was inside the pen with five or six cow-calf pairs, trying to get the calves to load.

    It appeared that he wasn’t having much luck, which meant that we might have enough time to run back to camp and alert Slim to what was going on. That was kind of important to solving the case, don’t you see, because only Slim could write down the description of the vehicle and the license number.
    I do many things well, but writing down license numbers isn’t one of them.
    â€œWell, Brew, our next assignment is to highball it back to camp and get Slim out of bed.”
    His ears jumped and his eyes grew wide. “Did you say ‘highball it back to camp?’”
    â€œThat’s correct, at top speed.”
    He plunked his big bohunkus down on the ground. “You know, Hank, I’ve never been too keen on highballing it back to anywhere, and if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll stick around here and try to keep this hill from blowing away. And I might even,” he yawned, “take me a little nap.”
    â€œWhat’ll you do when Rip and Snort wake up?”
    â€œWho? Oh, them? Shucks, they seemed like pretty nice fellers to me, just a little clumsy, is all. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble.”
    I glanced at the sleeping cannibals. Brewster would probably never realize that he had just thrashed two of the toughest coyotes in Ochiltree County, and I didn’t see any point in trying to explain it to him. But I couldn’t help wondering how much damage the guy could do if he ever tried.
    â€œAll right, you stay here and keep your eye on that rustler, and I’ll make a lightning dash back to camp.”
    â€œGood deal. You handle the lightning dashes, and I’ll sure keep my eyes on the rustler—if I can keep ’em open that long, is where the problem’s going to come.” He yawned again. “Boy, you guard dogs don’t wrinkle the sheets much at night, do you?”
    â€œJust part of the job, Brewster.”
    â€œYep, and I’m sure glad it’s your job and not mine.” He crossed his paws in front of him and laid his chin on the crossed paws. “Holler when you need me, otherwise I’ll zzzzzzzzzz.”
    It sure didn’t take him long to fall asleep. He may very well have been the sleepingest dog I’d ever run across.
    Well, maybe Brewster had time to take a nap but I sure didn’t. I pointed myself toward the north­east, hit Code Three, and went streaking up the