Lost in the Blinded Blizzard Read Free

and your UPS drivers are the very worst about doing this, I mean, they seem to think they’ve got a right to enter the ranch without permission and start banging on doors.
    But once they reach the porch and hear that barking, they begin to realize that there’s a dog on duty, and you’ll see an amazing change in their behavior.
    At that point they might tap on the door, or they might call out, “Is anyone home?” But you won’t see ’em banging on any doors, no siree, because . . .
    HUH?
    Someone was banging on Slim’s front door, and I mean banging loud.
    â€œOpen up, in the name of the law! We know you robbed the stagecoach, Slim Chance, and we know you’re in there. Now come out with your hands up or we’ll burn this place to the ground!”
    The, uh, deep roar of a bark that had been gathering momentum in my throat changed pitch all of a sudden, as my, uh, throat seemed to contract, so to speak, in response to the, uh, sound of an angry mob on the front porch.
    I hadn’t exactly prepared myself for an angry mob, don’t you see, and while angry mobs of mob sters have never struck fear in my heart, they have never struck courage in my heart either.
    After retreating a few steps . . . several steps . . . halfway across the room, I turned to my assistant. “Drover, I’m almost sure they’re bluffing, but just in case . . .”
    He had vanished.
    I caught a glimpse of him, trying to crawl under Slim’s chair, but just then the angry mob broke down the door and hundreds of wild-eyed mob sters carrying torches and bloody swords streamed into the house, screaming horrible things and wav ing their bloody torches and burning swords.
    Well, hey, if I’d known they wanted in that bad, I would have . . . I could see that this was going to be a fight to the finish, and it seemed reasonable and honorable that I should postpone the finish as long as . . .
    Fellers, I ran!

Chapter Three: The Swirling Killer Tornado

    G etting traction on a linoleum floor is a very difficult thing to do, especially when your paws are turning several thousand RPMs per second.
    After running in place for a moment, I finally got traction on the stupid linoleum floor in the hallway and moved my line of defense, so to speak, a bit deeper into the house.
    Into the living room.
    Under the coffee table.
    Not far from Slim.
    Hmmm. That was odd. The angry mob had busted into the house to get Slim, right? So why wasn’t he running for his gun or doing anything to defend himself? And how come he was laughing . . . and pointing at, well, ME?

    It didn’t make any sense. I mean, if those mobsters really . . .
    Have we discussed childish cowboy pranks? There seems to be something about cowboys that draws them to silly, childish acts of behavior. Perhaps there are some people in this world who would consider these outrageous acts funny, but you will find very few dogs who do.
    I mean, we try to run our ranches in a businesslike manner. We try to be serious about things and we don’t appreciate . . .
    Okay, Billy, our neighbor down the creek, turned out to be one of those jokers, a guy who never passed up a chance to goof off and pull a childish prank.
    He’d pulled up in front of Slim’s place and banged on the door and yelled all that . . . hey, he hadn’t fooled me for a minute with that stuff about how Slim had robbed a so-called . . . I mean, we don’t have stagecoaches around here, right?
    But on the other hand, a guy never knows for sure . . . see, he was banging on the door, and I mean really BANGING and YELLING, sounded like a whole mob of . . .
    Well, this guy not only took fiendish delight in making noise and scaring people, but he seemed even prouder of himself for scaring the liver out of me and Drover—primarily Drover.
    Don’t forget who was the first to run and hide. It wasn’t me.
    Okay, maybe I ran too, but not as fast as Drover.
    Billy was