LITMIR.BIZ

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. Maybe I haven’t mentioned this before, but I’m not only Head of Ranch Security but also Chief of our ranch’s fire department. That’s an important piece of information because this story has a lot to do with fires and firefighting.

      It’s pretty impressive that a dog can go from being an ace crimefighter to being an ace firefighter, and move elephantly from one area of expertise to the other.

      Wait. Did I say elephantly? I meant elegantly. To move elephantly would suggest that I’m clumsy and awkward, and nothing could be farther from the truth. There is nothing elephantly about the way I move from one job to another. Sorry for the confusion.

      Fighting fires would be a HUGE deal for most of your ordinary mutts. Show ’em a raging prairie fire and they’ll hide under the nearest pickup, but that’s not the way we operate around here. Show us a fire and we whip the stuffing out of it.

      Anyway, the point is that this story will have a lot of scary stuff about fires. It will have quite a bit about chickens, too, but that’s a touchy subject and I’d rather not discuss it just yet. For now, let’s not say a word about chickens.

      Okay, maybe I’ll say just a few words. Nothing in this world has caused me more grief than Sally May’s flock of idiot birds. I have the job of protecting them, don’t you see, and sometimes it drives me to despair. They are so dumb! But the most challenging part of protecting our chickens from villains who love to eat them is that every once in a while, a guard dog finds himself . . . slurp.

      Never mind. I said we wouldn’t discuss this sensitive subject and, by George, we won’t. Talking about chickens is not only a teetotal waste of time, but I’ve also noticed that whenever chickens enter the conversation, I’m usually . . . well, in trouble.

      Hencely, I won’t say one word about chickens, even though I already did, and I’d be grateful if you’d forget about it. I said nothing about chickens, right? Thanks.

      Where were we? Oh yes, it was the month of September and I don’t remember the year. It was the year we had September between August and October. August had been wet and cool, and our pastures had turned into a grass paradise. We had water flowing in the creek and standing in every hole and cow track. The cows and yearlings were fat and some local fools (Slim and Loper, for example) had ventured the opinion that we would have green grass all the way to frost. Ha.

      Then came September with temperatures up near a hundred degrees and those hot southwest winds that steal moisture like a thief. Within two weeks, our country changed from green to brown, and the mood of everyone on the ranch went into a steep decline.

      Me? I didn’t have time to feel gloomy about the dry weather, because someone on the ranch had to worry about the danger of fires. Yes sir. When you get that combination of tall dry grass and hot southwest winds, you have all the ingredients for a disastrous prairie fire.

      Those fires get started in many ways: a careless camper, a cigarette tossed out the window of a passing vehicle, a lightning strike, a power line that has been blown down in the wind.

      Oh, and let’s not forget sparks that come from electric welders and cutting torches. When the country is dry and windblown, only a moron would try to cut and weld steel, but you know what? It happens. And you know what else? It happened on my own ranch, before my very eyes, and, as you will see, it almost burned the pants off the guy who did it.

      It was Drover who turned in the report of suspicious activity. It was a blistery hot afternoon and we were occupying a piece of shade on the north side of the saddle shed. I had been logging eighteen hours a day on Fire Patrol and was worn out from all the stress and strain, and I had seized the opportunity to . . . well, grab a few winks of sleep.

      “Hank, you’d better look at this. Something’s going on.”

      I lifted my head and glared at him through soggy eyes. “Drover, something is always going on. At any moment, in any part of the universe, something will be going on.”

      “Yeah, but you won’t like this. Someone’s down at the corrals, and I think he’s running a welder.”

      It was then that my ears picked up the drone of a portable welder’s gasoline engine. I shifted my gaze to the northwest and focused in on the scene. Sure enough, some guy was down there, welding the cow chute.

      As you may know, a cow chute is a device that is used to restrain

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