The Case of the Vampire Vacuum Sweeper (7 page)

This was promising to be a very interesting case, and it was time for me to move into Stage Three—confront them, expose them as frauds and charle­magnes, and order them off my ranch.

Chapter Eleven: A Slight Miscalculation, Nothing Serious

E
xposing these hoodlum dogs would have been easier and more fun if I'd had Slim backing me up with his shotgun, but he had botched his part of the mission and I was left all alone on life's front lines.

That's not the kind of situation we hope for, but that's where I was. And it was time for action. I took a big breath of air, rose from the weeds in which I had been crouching, and announced my presence to the mutts.

“Okay guys, the party's over. We've had you under surveillance from the moment you set foot on this ranch. We know who you are and who you pretend to be. We know why you're here and what mischief you have in mind. Get off the ranch right this minute or . . .”

Huh? They seemed to be . . . laughing, you might say. That seemed odd, but I let them laugh. I had an idea that they wouldn't be laughing for long.

Dog One was the first to speak. “Ha! Coyote always got mischief on mind and coyote make gooder mischief than whole world.”

Now it was my turn to chuckle. “Listen, Buster, you can drop the phony coyote lingo. It won't sell, sorry. In the first place, the accent's wrong. In the second place, you don't sound dumb enough to be a coyote. In the third place . . .”

At that very moment the wind shifted and I caught the unmistakable musky odor of . . . that smell was really strong, and I noticed that the hair along my spinebone had more or less raised itself, almost as though . . . and I noticed for the first time that Dog One had . . . uh . . . shockingly yellow eyes and big teeth, real big . . .

HUH?

Gulk.

My mind was tumbling through this latest churn of events. I couldn't believe this had happened to me, but all the evidence was beginning to suggest that it had.

Okay, let me explain everything and get you up to speed. Remember our discussion about the Phony Coyote Profile and Phony Coyote Dialect? Well, it had been even phonier than I could have suspected in my wildest dreams, for you see, these guys had used the Ultimate Disguise:
They had
disguised themselves as themselves!

And I had fallen for it—hook, line, and sewer. You know who these guys were? Not Buster and Muggs, as you and Miss Viola had suspected all along, but Rip and Snort the coyote brothers. Pretty shocking, huh? You bet it was. And fellers, all at once I was in a world of trouble.

They were staring at me, licking their chops, waiting for . . . something. Lunch perhaps, or supper. Nothing that would do me any good.

I tossed a glance back to the house. Slim was nowhere in sight. Racing back to the house was out of the question. I knew I couldn't outrun them. I turned back to the brothers and tried to squeeze up a casual smile.

“Well! As I was saying, Snort, it's great to have you back in our neighborhood. How have you been?”

“Been hungry.”

“Yeah? And how's old Rip?”

“Been hungry.”

“I see. Well . . . uh . . .” Just then I noticed an important detail. “Say, Snort, did you know you've got a porcupine quill in your nose? You know, porcupines are very interesting . . .” BAM. He clubbed me over the head. “I guess that's a sensitive subject, so . . . how's the, uh, family?”

“Everybody hungrier and hungriest.” He grinned and licked his chops. “Been long time for not eat big yummy food.”

“Oh, you mean rabbits and, uh, rodents and such as that, I suppose. I mean, that's what you guys eat, right?”

He shook his head. “Guys hungry for bigger something, maybe nice fat ranch dog, oh boy.”

“Fat ranch dog, huh? Gee, it's a shame I'm so skinny, right? I mean, just look at these ribs showing.”

“Too dark for seeing ribs, and coyote not care anyway. Ribs good for chewing.”

“Yes, but . . . listen, Snort, if being hungry is your problem, how about this. We've got worlds of dog food, great stuff, no kidding, you'd love it. Crunchy. Delicious. You've tried our dog food, right? Remem­ber how good it was?”

He shook his head. “Snort remember crunchy sawdust. Too boring for coyote.”

Boring.
I ran that through Data Control and began to formulate a desperate plan.

“I'm beginning to understand, Snort. See, your basic problem isn't hunger, it's boredom. Isn't that true? You're bored with your life, with the dull routine of being . . . well, of being a cannibal. You get up, crawl out of your hole, howl at the moon, go out on the prowl, hunt, eat, and go back to bed. Snort, no wonder you're bored. That's a very boring life.”

They stared at me without the slightest expression on their faces.

“See, just look at you now, staring at me with bored eyes and bored faces. You don't know what to say because you're both so boring, you can't talk.” They held a conference and whispered back and forth. Then Snort came over and clubbed me on the head with his paw. “Hey, what was that for?”

“Coyote brothers bored, hit dummy ranch dog on head for fun, ho ho.”

“There! So you admit it, you ARE bored.”

“Coyote brothers not admit for nothing.”

“Okay, don't admit it, but you and I both know it's true.” He clubbed me again. “Hey, what was that for?”

“Coyote not like truth coming from dummy ranch dog!”

“Oh, so that's it. You don't enjoy hearing the truth about yourselves, that you're just a couple of miserable boring flea-bitten cannibals—and even your fleas are bored. Isn't that right?”

Their yellow eyes were flaming. “Hunk talk stu­pider and stupidest. Better shut stupider mouth.”

I paced back and forth in front of them and gave them a minute to think. Then I continued.

“Okay guys, I called this meeting because . . . well, frankly, I've been worried about you. Lately, you've looked so . . . well, lifeless. Listless. Unin­spired. Bored, shall we say.” I stopped pacing and faced them. “I think you've got Creeping Terminal Entropy. Let's check some symptoms. Have you ever suspected that you have only four legs?” They nodded. “And only one tail?” They nodded. “Only two ears?” They nodded. “That's pretty boring, isn't it?” They nodded.

“And have you ever felt more like you do right now than you did a while ago?” They nodded. “Well, there you are. You're in the early stages of Creeping Terminal Entropy. But I have some good news, guys. I think I can help you.”

They went into another whispering session. Then Snort said, “Rip not feel so swell, want to hear cure for Creepum Termite Hoopem-Hikem. Hunk better have good cure or might end up for coyote supper, ho ho.”

“Okay, guys, here's the deal.” I moved closer to them, even though I could hardly stand the smell. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I guess you've heard the old saying, ‘Music soothes the savage beast,' right?”

Snort shook his head. “Coyote plenty savage but not like beets.”

“Exactly, that's my whole point. You hate beets so you must love music, right?”

They talked this over in mutters and mumbles. Then, “Coyote not give a hoot for love.”

“Okay, but you
like
music, right?”

More whispers. “Coyote not like all music, only trashy coyote song. Not give a hoot for pretty foo-foo song.”

“Great! I think this will work. Don't you see, Snort? If you hate beets and foo-foo music, a trashy coyote song will pull you out of this terrible Hoopem-Hikem.”

They exchanged puzzled glances and shrugged. “Sound pretty crazy to Rip and Snort.”

Yeah, well, it sounded pretty crazy to me too, but I could see that it was working. I plunged on into Phase Two.

“Okay, Snort, I think we're ready. You guys have the rest of the night to come up with a trashy coyote song. Then at dawn's first light, or heck, even later, you can, well, sing it.”

He grinned and poked me in the chest with his paw. “Ha! Big joke on Hunk. Guys too bored to sing. Want to hear Hunk do song.”

“Me? No, now wait a minute, Snort. See, I don't have a song and . . . well, I don't do my best composing under pressure. I'm sure you can understand that.” I searched their faces for . . . something. Compassion. Understanding. Sympathy. It wasn't there. “You expect me to come up with a song out of thin air?” They nodded. “That's outrageous, it's impossible, it can't be done. Sorry.”

They stood up and began licking their chops.

“Oh, what the heck, I guess I could try. But I don't have a subject to sing about.”

“Hunk not sing about foo-foo or love.”

“Okay, now we're cooking. No songs about foo-foo or love. Got it. Tell me more, and take all the time you need, guys. I'm in no hurry. Honest.”

They sat down and went into a whispering conference. When they turned back to me, Snort pointed to his nose. “Snort got pork-um-pine quill in nose.”

“Yes, I noticed that right away.”

“Pork-um-pine quill make big hurt on coyote nose.”

“I can imagine.”

“So Hunk do song about pork-um-pine, ha ha.”

I searched their faces again. They were serious. “You want me to do a song about
porcupines
?” They grinned and bobbed their heads up and down. “Snort, listen. There is nothing musical or inspiring about porcupines, honest. I mean, it's just im­possible to . . . I can't possibly . . .” They raised their lips into snarls. “Porcupines, huh? No problem. Give me two hours and I'll come up with something.”

They shook their heads. “Give Hunk five minutes and better have good song about pork-um-pine.”

Gulp. “Five minutes, huh? That's . . . not much time, Snort, and I hope you understand . . .” He bashed me over the head. “By George, I think I feel a song tugging at the shirt-tail of my heart. Hang on, guys, I'll be right back. Don't leave.”

That got a big laugh.

I turned my back on them and went into deepest concentration. A song about porcupines? For Pete's sake, was there any subject on earth less inspiring or less musical than a porcupine? I couldn't think of one. Who could compose a song about a lumbering, dim-witted animal with a pincushion on his back?

ME, that's who, and I had to do it in record time.

You probably think I choked under the pressure and failed to deliver the song, that I was devoured by the cannibal brothers and the story's over. Ha! Not even close. Not only did I whip up the song in record time, but I also performed it before their very eyes. Here's how it went.

The Porcupine Blues

Now gather around, lift up your ears,

I've got a little song I want you to hear,

About a guy who's paid his dues.

This little guy's got the Porcupine Blues.

Now, little Porky has a lonesome life.

He's got no friends and he's got no wife.

He's got no socks 'cause he's got no shoes.

He's got a case of the Porcupine Blues.

If you scratched his back, tried to be his pal,

It would hurt your paw, it would make you howl.

It would make him sad but he just can't lose

That lonesome case of the Porcupine Blues.

So he stays apart, wears a coat of needles,

He lives on bark, grub worms, and beetles.

If you think that's great, you'd better get the news.

It's a lousy deal called the Porcupine Blues.

So when you think your life's a bummer,

Be glad you ain't a porcupummer.

It's a sad old trail for the feller who's

Got a permanent case of the Porcupine Blues.

Chapter Twelve: Once Again, I Save the Ranch

I
finished the song and bowed to the audience.

“There you are, guys. You wanted a song about porcupines and by George you got it. Pretty awesome, huh?” They stared at me without expression. “Come on now, admit that it was a great song.”

They shook their heads in unison. “Not great song. Coyote not give a hoot for colors.”

“It wasn't about colors, Snort. The Blues is . . . well, it's a feeling, a mood, a state of mind.”

“Coyote live in Texas, not give a hoot for other state, and coyote not give a hoot for dummy blue song.” He lumbered over to me and poked me in the chest. “Coyote brothers boredomed again. Tired of singing. Do something else.”

“Hey Snort, I'm not a recreation director. You can't expect me to keep you guys entertained all night.”

He gave me a toothy grin. “Ho ho. Then maybe we have big coyote feast in moonlight, oh boy!”

“Okay, okay. I'll try to entertain you. What do you want to do?”

Snort thought for a moment. “How 'bout have big fight? Coyote love to fight, kick and bite, tear up whole world.”

“Hey, that's an idea. You and Rip could . . .” Snort shook his head. “Now wait a minute, Snort. I hope you're not thinking . . .” He grinned and nodded. “No. I refuse. Absolutely not. I've played the part of your punching bag on several occasions and it was no fun for me.”

“Ho ho! Too badly for Hunk.” They began creeping toward me.

“Wait, Snort, no, hey, we need to talk this thing over and . . .”

They were closing in on me and I sure thought . . . But just then, suddenly and all of a sudden, the silence was broken by . . . what was that? All three of us stopped and listened.

Loud footsteps? The snapping of brush? A voice . . . two voices . . . several voices, talking and laughing? Holy smokes, someone was coming, and before I had time to think of who or whom it might be, I found myself staring into the eyes of . . .

Okay, let's pause here a moment to . . . remem­ber Blue Heron's intelligence report about
four
stray dogs crossing the road
? Well, I had been on the lookout for those scoundrels all night and had more or less expected them to show up at . . . well, any moment. And sure enough, here they were: Buster and Muggs and their gang of town thugs.

Remember them? They were tough cookies. They loved to fight and tear things up and . . . hmmm.

They were just as shocked to find us as we were to find them. We glared at each other for a long time, then Buster broke the silence.

“Say, what is this? Who are these chumps?”

Muggs was bouncing up and down. “It's the jerk, Boss, the same jerk that was the same guy that got us shot at.”

Buster grinned. “Oh yeah, the Head of Ranch Security.”

“That's the guy, Boss, that's him, he's the jerk, and that's him right there.”

“I got it, Muggsie, I got it. Only this time he's got two pals with him, don't he?”

Muggs was still bouncing around. “He sure does, Boss, 'cause I counted 'em myself, one-two, and the jerk makes . . .” Muggsie's eyes went blank.

“Three, Muggsie. One, two, three.”

“Three. Okay, I counted four, but maybe it's three.”

“It's three. The question is, what are they doing out here?”

“I don't know, Boss, but I can ask him. You want that I should ask the jerk?” He whirled around and faced me. “Hey jerk, the boss wants to know what we're doing . . . the boss wants to know how many jerks . . . I don't know what he wants to know, jerk, but you'd better tell him real quick, you hear what I'm saying? Huh? Huh?”

I pushed Muggs's nose out of my face. “Hello again, Buster. What took you so long to get here? I thought we agreed to meet at midnight.”

Buster narrowed his eyes at me. “What are you talking about, numbskull? We came back to chase your cows, and that's what we're fixing to do.”

“Oh. So you've decided to cancel the fight?” I turned to Rip and Snort. “I guess you were right, guys. They've chickened out. I thought we had a fight lined up, but it seems they're scared.”

Buster pushed himself right into my face. “Wait a minute, pal. I don't know what you're talking about, but me and my boys ain't scared of nuthin' or nobody, understand? And who was it that said we was chicken? I'd like to meet him before he, shall we say, loses his health.”

Muggs got a big laugh out of that. “Oh, that was good, Boss. ‘Loses his health.' Har, har, har. I liked that one.”

“Thanks, Muggsie. Now, speak to me, cowdog. Talk. Who said we was chicken?” I pointed to Rip and Snort, who were watching all of this with puzzled expressions. “Oh yeah? Those fleabags called us chickens? I think that's very funny.”

When nobody laughed, Buster whipped his head around and glared at his boys. Suddenly they filled the air with yucks and laughs. Buster turned his crooked grin back on me.

“Me and the boys, we think it's very funny that a couple of fleabags would think that we're chicken.”

“Yeah? Well, that's what they said. I heard them myself. But if I were you, Buster, I'd be careful what I called them. They're very tough guys.”

His eyes widened. “Are they now? Pretty tough, huh?” He swaggered over to Rip and Snort and looked them over. “Well, they smell tough. They stink. Can you smell these mutts, Muggsie?”

“Oh sure, Boss, I smell 'em all the way over here. And they stink, too.”

“Yeah? That's what I thought. And Muggsie, do they look kind of scrawny to you?”

Muggsie laughed. “Har, har. Yeah, Boss, they're about the stinkingest scrawny fleabags I ever saw.”

“Me too. Hey Muggsie, when you look at these jerks, do you feel yourself being overwhelmed, as they say, by fear? I mean, do you feel yourself turning into a chicken or something?”

Muggs was bouncing up and down, pawing the air, and drooling at the mouth. “Naw, Boss, I tink I could take 'em. Just say the word, Boss, turn me loose, I'll teach me a thing or two!”

Buster grinned at me. “What can I say, cowdog? Your pals was mistaken. I think Muggsie ain't scared. If your boys want to go a round or two with Muggsie, maybe we got time. But I hope they under­stand that Muggsie holds the Alley Champ­ionship in town, and it might be, you know, a short fight.”

Through all of this, Rip and Snort had sat like statues, watching with unblinking yellow eyes. It was hard to say if they understood what was going on or not. They didn't look scared but they didn't show any excitement either. Mainly, they looked puzzled.

Muggs had worked himself up into a regular fit. He was dancing around, throwing punches with his paws, biting the air, and flexing his muscles. “Okay, jerks, come get a piece of Muggsie 'cause here I am! You're scrawny and you stink, and so does your momma.”

Rip and Snort continued to stare. They showed no sign of wanting to join the fight.

Buster winked at me. “What's the deal, cowdog? I tink your buddies just turned into poultry, so maybe you'd better try Muggsie yourself.”

Gulp. This wasn't going according to plan. I mean, I had supposed that Rip and Snort . . . they were bored, remember? Couldn't wait to get into a brawl? Well, here was a dandy fight, just waiting to happen, and there they sat!

But then it happened. In the process of dancing around and duking the air with his paws, Muggsie kicked some dirt in Snort's face. That got his attention! All at once his eyes flashed fire and he leaped to his feet.

“Dummy Mugg-dog not kick dirt in Snort face!”

And then Muggs made his second mistake. He kicked dirt in Rip's face, and that did it. In the blink of an eye, those guys went from being statues to a couple of buzzsaws. Muggs never knew what hit him. Before he could throw a punch, he was on the ground, pinned, and carpeted with coyotes.

I turned to Buster. “Well, you were right, Buster. That was a pretty short fight.”

He was stunned. “Shat up. No two dogs ever whipped Muggsie. Who are those guys?”

“Oh, just a couple of scrawny fleabag coyotes from the ranch. They're not our toughest coyotes, but I guess they'll do.”

“Coyotes! Why you . . . I wondered why they had yellow eyes, and now I know. You tink you're pretty smart, don't you, cowdog?”

“Yep, and I guess you're next, Buster. Go for it.”

He cut his eyes from side to side. “Hey, boys, get em, jump 'em! We've got 'em outnumbered.” The other two thugs were already backing away. “Why you yellow-bellied, chicken-livered . . .” Buster started backing away. Rip and Snort climbed off of Muggsie, the former champion, and advanced toward Buster, who said, “Wait a minute. Back off. Hey, I know judo, I know karate, I'm a very dan­gerous . . . you'll pay for this, cowdog!”

And with that, he was gone, Muggs was gone, the other two were gone. I heard them crashing through the weeds and bushes, with Rip and Snort right on their tails. Then . . . silence.

Well! I had cleaned up another mess, solved another difficult case, saved the cattle from being stampeded, and brought the ranch through another dangerous night. I had single-handedly whipped two head of ferocious cannibals and four head of town dogs, and hadn't even gotten a scratch.

Not a bad evening's work, huh?

I made my way back to the porch, found a comfortable spot near the woodpile, and caught a few winks of sleep before daylight, when Guess-Who finally dragged himself out of bed. He wandered out on the porch and said, “What the heck's this piece of string doing on my toe? Oh yeah, my burglar alarm. I guess it broke.” He looked down at me and yawned. “Did I miss something, pooch?”

Did he miss . . . oh brother! What can you say?

But it turned out all right. Slim hiked down to the weaning trap and spent several minutes studying tracks and signs. He found enough dog and coy­ote tracks to figure out that I had saved the ranch from a huge catastrophe, for which I received the ranch's Highest Award for Bravery—two pats on the head, one “Good Dog,” and half a piece of burnt toast.

But you know what else he did? He called up Miss Viola and told her the story and then . . . you won't believe this part . . . he invited her to go dancing that very night! See, Frankie McWhorter was playing his fiddle in Higgins that night, at a big country barn dance.

But wait, before you faint, let me finish. See, Slim had forgotten about his swollen ankle and that he couldn't get his boot on, and so he had to call her back and cancel the date.

But at least he'd thought about it. For Slim, that's real progress.

Case closed.

It was pretty slick, the way I disposed of those stray dogs, don't you think? You bet it was. Some doubters might say it was just dumb luck, but don't you believe it. The whole thing was part of a very clever plan, no kidding.

See you around.