Lost in the Blinded Blizzard (5 page)

Chapter Eight: Don't Forget: I Volunteered

S
lim carried me into the bathroom and closed the door behind us.

That really wasn't necessary. Did he actually think that I might . . . hey, I had
volunteered
for this mission! He didn't need to treat me like a common crinimal.

I resented that. It really hurt.

On the other hand, I did happen to notice that he had left a little crack in the door, and I wondered what might happen if I hooked my paw around . . .

SLAM!

He couldn't take a joke, that's all. No sense of humor.

He left me alone in that prison cell and re­turned a few minutes later. He was holding an old boot top that had been stitched at one end so that it would hold cow medicine.

He shoved the bottle of cough medicine inside the boot top, rigged up a kind of harness device out of whang leather, and tied it around my neck.

This deal showed every indication of getting out of hand. I mean, it appeared that he might actually go through with it.

He left the room again, and when he came back, I was sorry to see that he was dressed for cold weather. The worm of fate had crawled another step toward the apple of . . . something.

Disaster, probably.

“Well, Hankie, all these years we've been a-saying that you ain't worth eight eggs. I guess this is your big opportunity to prove us wrong. Or maybe right. You ready?”

You bet I was ready—so ready that I tried my very best to crawl into the cabinet where he kept his towels and wash rags. He grabbed me and I sank my claws into the nearest towel and went to digging.

He got me out of there, but he knew he'd been in a struggle. And I carried one of those towels all the way to the front door.

As we passed Drover, he raised his head and gave me a grin. “Good old Hank, what a guy! I'd sure like to go with you, but this old leg of mine . . .”

I wasn't able to come up with words to express the thoughts that marched across the vast expanse of my mind. So I just glared at him and hoped that the cruel slant of my eyes would convey the message.

Suddenly we were outside in the raging ferocious blizzard. I could hear the wind roaring like a freight train through the cottonwoods. Frozen limbs creaked. The snow swirled before my snow-blinded eyes. I gasped for breath.

Surely Slim wouldn't . . . it was time for Heavy Begs. I moaned and whined and tried to kick my legs. No luck.

Slim didn't put me down at this point, which struck me as a shabby cheap trick and a vote of no confidence. I mean, did he think I would try to scramble back into the house or hide behind the wood pile or make a run for the feed barn?

Yes, apparently that's what he thought, and come to think of it . . . but I didn't get the opportunity because he carried me away from the house, out into the storm, and down the road, which wasn't there anymore because it was buried under six inches of snow.

Oh yes, and along the way he pulled a limb off a tree and I couldn't imagine what he might . . .

At last he stopped and dropped me into the snow. It would be hard for me to express just how awful that snow felt as it closed around my nice warm paws and invaded the inner warmth of my inner being.

Let's just say that it felt awful, and that I looked up into his eyes and switched my tail over to the I-Don't-Believe-You're-Doing-This-to-a-Loyal-Friend Mode.

That didn't work either.

“Go home, Hank. Take the medicine to Molly. Double dog food if you make it.”

Oh yeah? And what if I didn't make it? It would be double dog food for the buzzards, right?

“Go on! Go to the house. Find Loper.”

I whimpered and moaned and howled and cried and tried to . . . but he raised his stick in a threatening manner, almost as though he planned to . . .

“GO HOME!”

Okay, all right. I just hadn't understood his . . . he wanted me to find my way back to the house, it appeared, and perform a very dangerous mission of mercy, which was sort of my specialty, and there was no need to yell and threaten and . . .

GULP.

It seemed that heroism had been thrust upon me, and as I've said many times before, when all else fails, a guy might as well go ahead and do what's good and right.

Yes, they had definitely chosen the right dog for this job. Or, to put it another way, they were very lucky that I had volunteered for this mission.

I glanced up into Slim's face one last time, just in case he might have thought it over and changed his . . . drawing back the stick? That was uncalled for, I mean, it's not necessary to bully and browbeat the Head of Ranch . . .

“Go home, Hank, go home!”

All at once I felt a powerful urge to go home. Yes, and to deliver the precious healing medicine that would cure Baby Molly of the cough that had tormented her sleep.

The words of my Cowdog Oath returned to me: “. . . to protect and defend all innocent children against all manner of monsters and evil things, regardless of the consequences.”

And with those words fresh in my mind, I turned my back on the comfort of the house and the warmth of the stove (Drover would pay for this) and went plunging into the Great White Unknown.

The tracks we had left in the snow half an hour before had already vanished, but I had no trouble finding my way back to the cattle guard. That was the easy part—traveling with the wind at my back and following my own scent in the snow.

I reached the cattle guard in good shape and in record time. But once I had conquered the easy part, the part that remained to be conquered promised to be less than easy.

Hard.

Very difficult.

Somewhere between impossible and ridiculous.

At the cattle guard, I negotiated a 90 degree turn into a crosswind that was running about 40 degrees below zero, and began stumbling through snow that had drifted much deeper than I might have wished.

This was tough going, fellers. I mean, every step in that deep snow required a terrible effort, and after fifteen or twenty of those lunging steps, I was already shot.

But I couldn't stop. The words of my Cowdog Oath kept me going. Also the knowledge that if I stopped, I would become a doggie Popsicle. I mushed on.

After what seemed hours, I reached the flat­bed pickup, which we had left abandoned in the ditch. The hood had already disappeared beneath a drift.

I paused for a moment to catch my breath, then plunged onward into the storm. I reached the top of that hill just south of the alfalfa field. So far, so good. But the last mile to the house would be the most treacherous, for there were no trees or haystacks or fences or other landmarks to mark the land.

Up ahead, I saw nothing but a huge white blank. Up until recently, it had been my policy to avoid huge white blanks, but there appeared to be no way of avoiding this one.

Gulp.

I decided that my best hope in this hopeless situation would be to leave the road—or what used to be the road—and follow the creek in a westerly direction. That would give me some protection from the wind and a trace to follow.

There was only one small risk in this approach. On our way down to Slim's place, we had seen several coyotes dash across the road. Where do you suppose a coyote would go if he got caught out in a blizzard?

To the low ground, to the creek bottom, to the shelter of trees and bluffs.

Fellers, the thought of bumping into a band of hungry cannibals didn't exactly warm my heart, but neither did the thought of getting lost in the blizzard.

So I stopped thinking about it and staggered down the hill toward the creek bottom. It was much better down there. The snow wasn't nearly as deep and I made good time, traveling right on the edge of the water where the snow had melted away.

Yes, this was fine. I increased my pace from a slow walk to a rapid walk, and then to a trot. I began calculating my Estimated Time of Arrival and figgered that if all went well, I would reach the house in about . . .

HUH?

Rip and Snort? Blocking my path? Surely this was a tropical illusion, sometimes when you've been traveling for a long time through snow, you become snow-blind and your eyes begin playing . . .

Licking their chops?

Uh-oh. Fellers, I had just blundered into the winter camp of a couple of dog-eating coyotes. That's not something you want to do when you're out on an important errand of mercy.

Chapter Nine: Snowbound with Cannibals

I
did a quick about-face and began marching in the other direction, hoping that the coyotes might think they had seen a mirage. Or something.

I had only gone three steps when I heard them shout, “Halt! Stop! Not try to escape!”

I, uh, pretended not to hear them. That can happen sometimes, when the wind's blowing hard. I hoped they'd understand, but just in case they didn't, I cast a glance over my . . . they were coming after me, plunging through the snow with big leaps.

“Halt! Not walk away when coyote say halt!”

I picked up my pace somewhat, moving into a rapid walk and then into a dog trot. When I sensed that this wasn't working, I reached for the afterburners and went to Escape Speed.

And ran smack into them. Those guys were fast.

They weren't smiling, not at all. They looked very serious, almost angry. Angry. And hungry.

Snort narrowed his eyes and gave me a sniffing.

“That you, Hunk, with face covering up with many snowflake?”

“Me? With my face covered up with snow­flakes? No, it's not me at all. There's been some mistake.”

“Uh. Snort thinking we find ranch dog name Hunk.”

“Oh no. No, no. No, not at all.”

“You looking berry much like Hunk, Snort think, and Rip too.”

Rip nodded his head, and they continued to stare at me with their yellow eyes.

“No, I think this is just a simple case of mistaken identity, Snort. I'm not me at all. That is, I'm not who you think I am, unless . . . eh, just out of curiosity, what do you think of this ‘Hunk' feller? Tell me about him.”

“Chicken dog.”

“No, that's not me.”

“Dummy ranch dog.”

“See? You've got the wrong guy, and I really . . .”

Snort blocked my path. “Hunk all the time making coyote look foolish, play many trick.”

“No! You mean, there's a dog around here who could make
you guys
look foolish? I can hardly believe that.”

“Better you believe that.”

“Right. I believe that with all my heart and soul and liver and . . .”

“Coyote hungry for liver.”

“I didn't say liver. I said ‘heart and soul.'”

“Uh. Coyote hungry for heart.”

“I didn't say heart. I must have misquoted you, so let me run the whole thing past you again. I said, ‘I believe that will hardly deliver my soul,' is exactly what I said, word for word. Honest.”

“Nothing about hearts or livers.”

“Not make sense, ‘hardly deliver soul.'”

“You're right, Snort, so let's just scratch out the business about the soul. That leaves us with, ‘I believe that will hardly deliver the mole.' How does that grab you?”

“Ha! Mole not grab coyote. Coyote grab mole and swallow in two bites, yum yum.”

“Now we're getting somewhere! What you guys need is a nice fat mole to eat, and I'll bet that if you'd stick your heads into that big snowdrift over there and count to five thousand, you'd find one. No kidding, I really think you'd . . .”

“You wipe snow off of face.”

“Say what? Wipe snow off of . . .”

Rip stepped forward and slugged me under the chin, causing my head to fly back and red checkers to form behind my eyes, and sending the snow flying off of my face.

And all at once I was exposed, stripped of my disguise in front of two of the most dreadful cannibals in Ochiltree County.

They gave me big toothy grins. “Ah ha, Hunk hiding behind snow!”

“No, wait a minute. I wasn't exactly . . .”

“And now Hunk captured.”

“Captured? Well, surely we can . . .” I glanced around and checked out the escape routes. The coyote brothers filled them.

“Hunk not try run away.”

“Oh no, I wouldn't think of . . .”

“Hunk stay for supper.”

“Thanks, Snort, but I really ought to . . .”

“Because Hunk MAKE supper for hungry brothers, ha ha.”

“That's not funny, Snort. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, laughing at the misfortunes of others.”

He stuck his nose right in my face. “Rip and Snort tear up whole world and spit, not feel ashamed for nothing.”

“Okay, let's try another approach. You see this thing around my neck? It's medicine for a sick child—a little baby girl-child who has a terrible cough.”

“Coyote not give hoot for terrible cough.”

“I haven't finished yet, Snort, and I'd appreciate it if you'd suspend judgment until I'm done.”

“Coyote not give hoot for suspender juggling.”

“Of course you do. See, you probably didn't realize that I'm on an errand of mercy.”

“Coyote not give hoot for arrow of mercy.”

I glared at them. “Rip, Snort, I must tell you that I'm shocked and dismayed. I've never encountered such closed minds and cold hearts.”

“Uh! Coyote hungry for heart.”

“Forget I said that, I'm sorry I mentioned it. The point is that I'm shocked and dismayed.”

“Ha! Coyote not give hoot for chock full of dismay.”

“Okay.” My mind was racing. I had to come up with something, real quick. “Let's try another approach: singing.”

Their ears shot up and their yellow eyes began to sparkle. “Uh! Coyote give BIG hoot for singing! Rip and Snort berry greater singest in whole world, oh boy.”

“I doubt that, Snort. You guys might be . . .”

Snort poked me in the chest with his paw and curled his lip just enough to expose two rows of incredible fangs. “Hunk not bad-talk coyote music! Rip and Snort berry greater singest in whole big world!”

“Yes, well, I hope you didn't think I . . . what I'm saying, guys, is that you might be great singers . . .”

“Not might. Greater singest for sure!”

“All right, for sure, but you haven't heard my latest love song.”

Rip rolled his eyes. “Uh.”

“But I can already tell that you're dying to hear it.”

Snort shook his head. “Not dying.”

“All right. You're not dying to hear it, but you're very anxious to hear my latest love song.”

“Coyote rather eat than hearing love song. Coyote not give hoot for love.”

“But this is a different kind of love song, Snort. It's about fleas.”

He perked up on that. “Uh! Coyote got plenty fleas.” He sat down in the snow and began scratching his ear with his hind leg. “Got flea right now, ha!”

“See there? I knew you'd like it. It's called, ‘Oh Flee, My Love.'”

They were waiting for me to sing. I could tell that I had picked . . . perked . . . piqued . . . pricked their interest. Gotten their attention. Tapped into their cultural level.

Snort stopped scratching and frowned at me. “So? Love song about flea okay with coyote. Hunk sing about loving flea.”

“Well, I really hadn't come prepared . . . I didn't bring my music, don't you see, and . . .”

“HUNK SING!!”

“All right, all right, but remember that you forced me to do this.”

And with that, I sang them my latest bombshell of a song.

Oh Flee, My Love!

I saw her face that snowy night and felt the love bug crawl.

As melting snow dripped off my chin, I promised her my all.

Or if not all, then some of it, the part that I could spare.

I offered her my heart's spare part, I promised it right there.

Her eyes showed pure astonishment, I knew I'd done the trick.

Her mouth turned up into a smile that would have melted brick.

I knew I had her on the ropes, I knew I couldn't fail.

And that's when I became aware of something near my tail.

At first I tried to let it slide, I figgered it was just

That same old crawling bug of love I'd noticed right at first.

And so I winked my eye at her and gave her one more thrill,

But suddenly that bug of love attacked me with a drill.

When something's drilling on your tail, it's hard to keep your suave,

I lost my concentration then and knew I had to solve

The mystery of that piercing pain that had a hold of me

The bug of love that bit so hard turned out to be a flea!