LITMIR.BIZ

      That’s where we were when the mystery began: roasted, toasted, hot, dehydrated, worn out, and wind-blown, and everybody on the ranch was on edge about prairie fires. See, when the pastures are bone dry and the wind is roaring, any little spark can start a blaze, and once it starts…I guess you’ll find out.

      I don’t want to reveal too much, but…well, we had a fire. That comes later in the story, after I rescued Sally May from the Charlie Monsters and after Little Alfred had smuggled something out of his mother’s kitchen, but you’re not supposed to know about any of that stuff, so don’t tell anyone.

      Sh-h-h-h-h.

      Where were we? Oh yes, the drought.

      The cowboys were sick of the heat and the dust, and disgusted that they were having to feed cattle in the summer. And boy, you talk about being in a foul mood! They weren’t fit to be around. When they weren’t complaining about the drought, they were snarling at each other, and when they got tired of that, they yelled at the dogs.

      What were the dogs supposed to do about the drought? Actually, we tried a few home remedies. For three whole days in July, Drover and I stationed ourselves on a hill north of headquarters and barked at the clouds. They formed up into thunderheads, then fell apart and turned into fuzzy little do-nothing puffs that gave us about fifteen drops of rain.

      Fifteen drops! We needed fifteen inches and we got fifteen drops. It was an outrage, a huge waste of time. If a cloud’s too lazy and dumb to make a rain, there’s nothing a dog can do about it.

      When barking at the clouds didn’t produce any results, we tried singing our “Drought Song.” You’re probably not familiar with that one. Good. That means you’ve never been locked in a drought that was so bad, you tried to sing your way out of it.

      I don’t suppose you’d want to hear it, would you? I mean, the subject matter is kind of depressing, but it’s not a bad little song. Pretty good, in fact. Yes, by George, you need to hear it. Stand by to roll tape.

      Drought Song

      Desiccated gramma grass, wilting on the ground.

      Crisp yellow leaves are falling all around.

      A west wind blows with cruel might,

      And the prairie fires burn all through the night.

      We need rain.

      We need rain.

      Not a cloud in the sky, in the pale blue sky.

      If we don’t get a rain, everything is gonna die.

      Dried up sage brush, looking mighty sad.

      Chinaberry trees never saw it this bad.

      Cottonwoods fade, showing barren limbs,

      And the fish in the ponds are forgetting how to swim.

      We need rain.

      We need rain.

      Not a cloud in the sky, in the pale blue sky.

      If we don’t get a rain, everything is gonna die.

      The grass is gone, the hay’s used up.

      The cows look thin and they’re hunting grub.

      The people are tired and filled with doubt,

      And the dogs are sick of this stinking drought.

      We need rain.

      We need rain.

      Not a cloud in the sky, in the pale blue sky.

      If

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