A cow chute is a handy piece of equipment, but thousand-pound animals take their toll, even on steel, and from time to time, our lads have to crank up the welder and do some repairs. But in the middle of a dry spell? That was a no-no.
“I don’t believe this, Drover. I was up all night, scouting for fires, and here’s some nut running a welder in the heat of the day! Why, he could start a fire that would burn this whole ranch to the ground.”
“Yeah, I wonder who it could be?”
I leaped to my feet and loosened up the enormous muscles in my shoulders. “Nobody on our ranch would do such a crazy thing. He must be a stranger. Let’s go to Code Three and put a stop to this nonsense.”
We went streaking through the corrals, ducking under gates and bottom boards of the corral fence, and arrived at the scene only minutes later. There before us, we saw a strange man, working under a welding hood and creating a shower of red and yellow sparks.
In the corral, there wasn’t much vegetation that could burn, just a small patch of weeds at his feet, so maybe the fire danger wasn’t all that great, but operating a welder during a drought was against regulations. And this guy needed a good scolding.
I studied his appearance and memorized even the tiniest of details. He was fairly tall and thin, wearing steel-toed lace-up work boots and a pair of blue coveralls that were spotted with grease. Little burned holes on the sleeves suggested that the guy often used these coveralls as his welding uniform.
Oh, and did I mention the ragged cuffs? The cuffs around both ankles were frayed into strings.
It was those ragged cuffs that helped me identify the culprit. I had seen them before. “Drover, I’ve got him identified. You know who that is? Slim Chance.”
Drover was as shocked as I was. “No fooling? But why . . .”
“We don’t have an answer to that, son, but he should know better than to run a welder in the middle of a drought. Oh, and don’t look at the fire.”
“Okay. What fire?”
“The flash of the welder. It will blister your eyes.”
“I’ll be derned. How can it blister your eyes?”
“Drover, we don’t know all the details, but I’ve heard the cowboys tell Little Alfred not to look into the flash of an arc welder. It can blister the eyes. That’s why men who are welding wear hoods, to protect their eyes.”
“I wondered about that. He looks kind of like a robot, doesn’t he?”
“No. He looks like a man welding.”
“Well, I remember the time you barked at him, ’cause you thought he was a robot monster. I saw it myself.”
I heaved a sigh. “Drover, that was long ago. Many bridges have gone underwater since then.”
“Well, he still looks like a robot to me.”
“He’s not a robot and please hush. Stand by, I’m fixing to give him a wake-up call.” I stepped forward and delivered a stern round of barking that said, “Hey, pal, did you happen to notice the dead weeds at your feet? You’re violating the Fire Code. Shut off the welder and find something else to do.”
Heh heh. That got his attention. He stopped welding and turned toward the sound of my barking. He looked at me with . . . hmmm, he seemed to be staring at me through that one slit-eye on the front of the welding hood.
Behind me, I heard Drover gasp. “Oh my gosh, look at that creepy eye!”
“Drover, please hush. All welding hoods have a slit of dark glass that—”
Huh? You won’t believe this. Even I couldn’t believe it. All at once the man in the welding suit raised a clawed hand in the air and we heard this . . . this deep mysterious GROWL coming from inside the hood.
Drover began backing away. “Oh my gosh, I knew it! Did you hear that? He’s growling at us! And look at those claws!”
“Drover, hold your position and quit—”
“GRRRRRRRRRRRR! ROWERRRRRR! GRRRRRR!”
Holy smokes, something horrible was taking place! I mean, we’d been sitting there, minding our own business and watching a guy do some repairs on a cow chute, right? Well, get this. Before our very eyes, the man we’d always known as Slim Chance was somehow transformed into a . . . into a huge robot monster, eight feet tall!
Hang on, it gets worse. This huge monster saw us sitting there and he started slouching toward us with deadly claws poised above his head. And all at once it became perfectly clear that . . . HE ATE DOGS!
Well, you know me. I’m no prisoner to past memories. Maybe that guy had once been my friend, but by George, something awful had happened to him and now . . .
My ears flew up on my head, my eyes popped wide open, and the hair stood up on the back of my neck. I took a step backward and summoned up the best bark I could muster on short notice. Okay, it was kind of a gurgle, but what’s a guy to do when he suddenly realizes that one of his very best friends has been monsterized?
What had happened to poor Slim? We didn’t know. Maybe he had stared into the flash of the welder and it had . . . I don’t know, boiled his chromatoids and changed him into a slouching monster robot.
Science doesn’t have an answer for every question. All we know for certain is that this is a very strange world we live in and . . . yipes! He took another step in my direction and, fellers, I didn’t wait around for science to figure this one out. I whirled around, pushed the throttle up to Turbo Six, and hauled the mail out of there, firing barks over my shoulder as I—
BAM!
Ran into the fence. But that was only a momentary distraction. I leaped to my feet and roared away like a greased lightning bug.
If that creature planned to eat me, he would have to start with the tail and work his way up.
ZOOM!
Chapter Two: The Lost Mackerel
Ididn’t slow down until I had reached the saddle shed. Whew! Boy, that was close. There, I stopped for a breath of air and found Drover hiding in some weeds nearby. He was shaking all over and his eyes had turned into plates.
“I told you he was a robot monster!”
“Drover, you said he might be a robot, but you said nothing about a monster.”
“No, I said he was both and you didn’t listen. You never listen.”
“Okay, maybe I didn’t listen and maybe you were right this time. I’m sorry.”
“Are you really sorry or just saying it to be nice?”
I gave the runt a scorching glare. “Look, pal, we survived. You don’t get a medal for being right once every five years.”
“Yeah, but he could have eaten us for supper.”
“He didn’t eat us for supper. We’re alive and I’ve admitted that I underestimated the crisis. What more do you want?”
“I want to go home!”
“You are home. This ranch is where you live.”
He blinked his eyes and glanced around. “I guess you’re right, but I don’t feel any better. What’ll we do now?”
“I’m not sure.