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

canyon.
    I won’t go into details about my emergency run back to camp—how I leaped over rocks and fallen trees, climbed mountains and swam swollen rivers, ran through brambles and sticker weeds and thissy thornals . . . thorny thistles, that is; whipped twenty-two head of hungry coyotes, two badgers, and three porcupines.
    I won’t mention any of that, or how I arrived back at camp, exhausted, spent, completely used up, battered, on my last leg, near death, but triumphant through it all.
    I’ll say only that I made it back to camp, staggered up to the tent flap, and began barking the alarm.
    â€œHank, shut up!”
    He didn’t understand. This wasn’t just ordinary late-night barking, but rather a Code Three situation that demanded his immediate attention, so I turned up the volume and barked harder and louder than . . .
    SPLAT!
    Was he trying to be funny? Throwing pillows at the Head of Ranch Security in the middle of the night? What kind of outfit was this, anyway?
    Hey, we didn’t have a minute to spare! That rustler was down there loading cattle, and if I didn’t get Slim out of bed pretty quick . . .
    I had to do something to wake him up, and do it fast. I did.

Chapter Twelve: Another Triumph Over the Crinimal Forces

    I would have preferred not to bite his toes, but he had left me with no choice. They were exposed, don’t you see, and sticking out from under his blanket.
    â€œEEEEEEE-YOW!”
    I hated to do it, but by George it worked. He flew out of that bed and chased me around the tent three times trying to perform some act of violence upon me, but on the third lap he finally woke up.
    â€œHoly smokes, are you trying to tell me something, Hank?”
    Right. There’s a cow thief in the pasture and you’re chasing me around the tent, and don’t we look foolish?
    â€œDo we have a cow thief in the pasture?”
    I barked.
    It takes a lot of patience to work with these cowboys, but if you stay after them and don’t get shot or strangled or clubbed to death with a pillow, they’ll eventually come around.
    I had never thought of Slim as being a guy who moved with lightning speed, mainly because on an ordinary day he moved with nonlightning speed. In other words, no speed at all.
    Very slowly. Like a turtle or a waterdog or a wounded goose.
    But once he figgered out what was going on, he jumped into his clothes, grabbed up a bridle, ran down to the grassy flat where the horses were hobbled and grazing, caught old Dunny, stuffed the bit into his mouth, and swung up on his back.
    He didn’t take the time to saddle Dunny, but rode him bareback. Now, that was more like it. At last we were getting some action out of the cowboy crew.
    â€œCome on, pup. Lead the way.”
    And so it was that we went streaking down the canyon, with me out front in the lead position, leaping rocks and fallen trees, climbing rivers and swimming swollen mountains, and so forth. I won’t go into all the details.

    How did I do it? How could ANY dog made of mere flesh and blood and hair and bones accomplish so many incredible, impossible feats in one night? All I can tell you is that it couldn’t be done, but I did it anyway.
    Okay, by the time we reached the south end of the pasture, Slim could see the headlights. He left Dunny hobbled in the bottom of the draw and climbed to the top of the hill—with me leading the way, of course.
    When we got there, we looked down into the next draw and . . . I couldn’t believe that Brewster was down there, helping the rustler load up the last of the calves!
    Well, maybe he wasn’t exactly helping. I had already picked up on the fact that Brewster had about as much cow-sense as your average lumber truck, so he couldn’t have been much help, even if he’d wanted to. But he sure as thunder wasn’t doing anything to stop the crime from happening.
    I mean, he was trotting along beside the rustler, panting happily