LITMIR.BIZ

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take two steps, I collapsed into my gunnysack bed. But he didn’t go far. “Hank, there it is again, that sound, and I’m getting scared.”

      I lifted my exhausted body up from its former resting place. “Okay, spare me the muttering mum­ble. We’ll grumble together on this one, but I’m warping you, Drover. If my health bonks because of this, it will be on your consequence. Conscience, I should say.”

      “I can handle that.”

      “What? Speak up.”

      “I said . . . I just hope I can live with the guilt.”

      I yawned and stretched. “Okay, this will be a Silent Run. Stay behind me and rig for Night Vision. Let’s move out.”

      And so it was that we, the Elite Troops of the Security Division, left our warm beds and the comforts of home, and moved out into the screaming blizzard.

      Wait. This was May. Forget the blizzard. No blizzard. It was a warm night but pretty dark, and into the darkness we crept—the Elite Troops of the . . . I’ve already said that.

      Did we describe the sound? Maybe not. Okay, here’s the scoop. Most of the sounds we pick up in the night fall into three categories: Your Howls (usually coyotes), Your Clanks and Bangs (usually raccoons in the trash cans), and Your Unclassi­fieds (usually monsters).

      This was sounding more and more like a Cate­gory Three: monsters. I’m no chicken liver when it comes to patrolling headquarters, but those Cat Threes cause me some . . . well, concern. Monsters are something to be concerned about, right? You bet they are, and right away I was feeling the little pinpricks of fear that often come with Category Three Monster Sightings.

      I didn’t dare mention any of this to Drover. It would have ruined him for the mission.

      We plunged on into the inky black darkness. My eyes and ears were on Full Alert by this time. We followed the sound in a northward direction, bearing two-three-three-zirro-zirro, up the caliche hill and toward the yard gate. By this time, I was getting more complete readings from our sensing devices. The sounds began falling into Subcategory One of Category Three: flapping.

      Flapping? That was odd. Sometimes we pick up a Sub One Cat Three during the daylight hours, and it always comes from one source: clothes flapping on Sally May’s clothesline. But this was the dead of night. I knew for a fact that Sally May never left her clothes on the line at night. Do you know why?

      I don’t. She just doesn’t do it, that’s all I can tell you, and I knew for sure that this mysterious flapping sound was not coming from her clothes. It had to be something else.

      We continued our stealthy march through the inky blackness, until I suddenly realized that we had . . . BONK . . . arrived at the yard fence. I, uh, picked it up on Smelloradar, don’t you see, when I . . . Okay, maybe I ran into the fence with my nose, but the point is that the fence was there and I found it, just in the nickering of time.

      I turned to my assistant. “Shhhh!”

      “I didn’t say anything. I think you ran into the fence.”

      “I know I ran into the fence, and I don’t need you to tell me. What do you suppose is causing that flapping noise?”

      “Well, let me think. Could it be clothes on the clothesline?”

      “Don’t be absurd. Sally May never . . .” I cocked my ear and listened. “It certainly sounds like clothes flapping, doesn’t it?”

      “It does to me.”

      “Hmmm. Very strange, Drover. It appears that we have no choice but to go in and check it out.”

      “In Sally May’s yard?”

      “Of course in Sally May’s yard. That’s where the clothesline is, so that’s where we must go.”

      “Yeah, but dogs aren’t allowed in the yard. We might get in trouble.”

      “That’s all changed, Drover. I’m putting the entire ranch under Marshal’s Law.”

      “Who’s Marshal?”

      “How should I know? Marshal Dillon. Marshal Art. Marshal Mellow. Take your pick. Do you want to sit here and discuss marshals, or get to the bottom of this mystery?”

      “Number one.”

      “Too bad. Saddle up, son, we’re going in. I’ll go in the first wave. You come in the second wave and guard the rear.”

      “I wish my rear was back in bed.”

      “What?”

      “I said . . . oh boy, oh goodie, guard the rear.”

      “That’s the spirit. Now remember, we’ll have to jump the fence. Can you do it?”

      “Well . . .”

      “Good, and make as little noise as possible. See you on the other side. Good luck.”

      Right away Drover started whining. “This leg’s killing me.”

      I ignored his complaints and began the Fence-Jumping Procedure: face fence, coil back legs, spring upward, hook front paws on fence, scramble up and over. I did it without a hitch, then paused and waited for Drover to . . . CLUNK . . . land on top of my head, the little goofus.

      I stuck my nose in his face. “Never land on your commander’s head, Drover. It’s very bad for morale.”

      “Well, you were in my way.”

      “It’s my ranch, Drover, and I’ll stand anywhere I please. We’ve got six thousand acres here. You’re free to land anywhere on the ranch except on top of my head. Is that clear?”

      “Well, it was dark. I couldn’t see.”

      “That’s not an excuse and this will have to go into my report.” I cut my eyes from side to side. “Drover, what did we come here for?”

      “Well, let me think. I can’t remember.”

      “This is ridiculous. We went to a lot of trouble to get over the fence. Surely one of us can remember why.”

      “Not me. I was happy in bed. Wait, hold it, I remember now. I heard flapping but you heard scratching, but it was only me and then you heard flapping too, and we decided maybe it was Sally May’s clothes on the clothesline.”

      “Not likely, Drover. As you may know, she never . . . Did we hold this conversation earlier in the evening?”

      “I think maybe we did.”

      “Ah. That accounts for my feeling of déjà voodoo.”

      “What’s that?”

      “It means that we have already discussed this, only we were both half-asleep.”

      “You mean . . .”

      “Exactly. There are no flapping clothes, Drover, and we have entered the yard on a fool’s errand.”

      At that very moment, we both heard a sound that was clear and distinking. Without a doubt, it was the flapping of clothes on a clothesline. The mystery had just taken a turn in a new and sinister direction.

      Chapter Two: Unauthorized Rats in the Laundry

      By this time my head was clear of Post-Sleepal Vapors and my ears were alert to every tiny sound in the night.

      Flap, flap, flap.

      Those were not tiny sounds. They were loud, sharp reports that perfectly matched our profiles of flapping clothes. I turned to Drover. I could barely make out his

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