The Case of the Midnight Rustler Read Online Free Page B

a flash, I had cancelled the Shake Program and had gone into Manual Hair Lift-Up and switched over to Double Baritone Bark. Pretty impressive, huh? But that wasn’t all. In the midst of all this switching of programs and circuits, I somehow found an opening of time to leap into Sally May’s lap and give her my biggest, juiciest, most comforting lick on the face.
    How did I manage to accomplish all of that in the space of just a few seconds? I can’t tell you. Somehow it all comes together at the right time. It goes back to our rigorous training, I suppose.
    Training, self-discipline, physical conditioning, and the kind of protective instincts you expect to find in a top-of-the-line cowdog.
    I have no idea why she turned on me like she did. I mean, we’re talking about wild eyes and flared nostrils and clenched teeth, and do you believe that she actually SLUGGED ME ON THE NOSE?
    Yes sir, delivered a roundhouse right that landed between my nose and upper teeth. I never would have believed that a proper lady would actually slug a dog, but this one did.
    She gave a howl of pain and began shaking the very fist that had almost sent me into the next county. And then she screeched at me. Yes, screeched in a very loud and ugly tone, and to be honest about it, the screeching hurt me worse than the actual blow.
    Well, maybe not. It was a heck of a punch, came all the way from the horse pasture, seemed to me, and it did cause my lights to blink there for a while.
    But she screeched at me. “GET AWAY FROM MY BABY, YOU STINKING FLEABAG!!”
    Boy, that hurt, it really did. Sometimes a dog wonders what it takes to please these people. I mean, you devote every waking hour to . . . oh well.

    And then she screeched again, while I was trying my best to get out of her range. “Slim, either get this dog out of here or bring me the shotgun!”
    Holy smokes, the mention of the shotgun cleared my head faster than smelling sauce, and even though I was still seeing sparklers and checkers and strange patterns of light behind my eyes, I took this opportunity to tuck my tail and scramble for safety under Slim’s pickup.
    I made it, and lucky for me, she didn’t try to crawl under there to get me.
    You know, I never did figger out what had lit her fuse. Baby Molly ended up eating the bug. Maybe that was it, but with these women, you never know.

Chapter Five: Maybe I Stunk but Slim Got Bucked Off

    S o there I was, hiding under the pickup. Slim bent down and twisted his head so that our eyes met. I whapped my tail on the ground, as if to say, “I’m innocent, honest. All I did was . . .”
    He grinned. “Old Sally May packs a pretty mean right hand, don’t she? Ha! Don’t know as I ever saw her punch out a dog before. You’ve sure got a way with the ladies, pooch. Reminds me of me.”
    He hung the gas nozzle back on its baling-wire hook on the southwest angle-iron leg of the gas tanks. Then he climbed into the pickup and called out, “Come on, Stinkbomb. You ride in the back.”
    Riding in the back was fine with me, and it had nothing to do with me being a so-called “Stinkbomb.” Any ranch dog worth talking about will ride in the back of the pickup where the wind can blow his ears around and he can see what’s going on in the world.
    And just for the record, let me state that I didn’t care for the way HE smelled either. At least I took a bath every day.
    We turned right at the mailbox and drove to Slim’s place, down the creek a mile or so from head­quarters. He lived in that shack beneath the cottonwoods, the one that was covered with tar-paper because he and Loper had never gotten around to putting on the siding.
    They hate any kind of work that involves a hammer. Let me rephrase that: They hate any kind of work that involves work, and I’m not saying that just because Slim had called me a so-called “Stink­bomb,” although that did strike a