The Case of the Hooking Bull by John R. Erickson Read Free Book Online Page A

he’ll keep going and won’t turn to fight.
    So I played the percentages, right? When the numbers are on your side, everything’s supposed to turn out just fine, and what more can a dog do?
    Okay, I’ll tell you what happened after I bit that stupid bull on the heels, but I’m not proud of it and there’s no reason for blabbing it all over the country.
    I sank my teeth into his left hock, little suspecting that he might kick me into a low polar orbit with the right one, and never dreaming that he could do it in the blink of an eye. But he derned sure did.
    Kicked me dead-center in the rib cage, and I thought I had been run over by a large truck. All at once I saw red checkers and skyrockets exploding behind my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move.
    I don’t know how far I flew through the air, but it wasn’t far enough. I landed nose-first in the side of a sandhill. I lay there on the ground, gasping for breath and trying to restart my heart, when I began to realize that this killer hooking bull wasn’t finished with me.
    It wasn’t enough that he’d broken the Law of Averages and taken a really cheap shot and kicked the absolute stuffing out of me. No, he wanted some more, and HERE HE CAME!
    Any bull that would beat up on a handicapped dog is beneath contempt, but he loaded me up on his horns and pitched me into the Ozone Layer of the atmosphere.
    I landed in an awkward heap in the middle of a sagebrush, and I remember with perfect clarity the thought that came to my mind when I hit: “Enough of this nonsense, let’s go to the house!”
    But the drama was just beginning, as it turned out. Slim popped the bull again and tried to turn him back to the northeast, but Mr. Bull seemed to be enjoying this, and instead of running away, he dropped his head and charged Slim’s horse.

    They got out of the way just in time. Slim rode a short distance away and started building a loop in his rope. His eyes had settled into a tight squint and the muscles in his jaws were working.
    â€œYou all right, Hankie?”
    Arg, gasp, urg, wheeze, no, not really.
    â€œGet up and let’s teach this old general who’s boss around here.”
    Um, no thanks. I already knew who was boss.
    Slim shook out his loop and held it shoulderhigh. He moved his horse toward the bull and tried to coax him into running. And I knew why he tried to do that. You see, it’s much easier to rope an animal that’s running away from you than to rope one that’s facing you.
    I knew that, even though I myself don’t rope. I had watched Slim and Loper in action before, and I seem to have an amazing memory for such details. It’s just part of being a cowdog.
    But the bull didn’t go for it. He was on the fight and he had no intention of running anywhere. He perked his ears, bellered, pawed the ground, and dared Slim to make the next move.
    And Slim did. Instead of throwing your standard head-or-horn loop, as he would have done if the bull had run away, he turned his horse to the left and flicked out a hoolihan.
    That hoolihan is a slick loop. It’s quick, like a cobra striking its victim. No twirl, no warning, just swish and jerk slack. Slim’s a pretty good hand with the hoolihan, and he nailed his loop to Mr. Bull’s horns.
    It was a great throw and one of the biggest mistakes he’d made all week.
    He popped his slack, turned his horse, gave him the spurs, and headed for the stock trailer without even looking back. He should have looked back, because at that very moment Mr. Bull turned and ran in the opposite direction.
    I saw what was coming and I tried to bark a warning, but it was already too late. The dye had already been cast into the washtub. Also, I couldn’t even breathe, let alone bark.
    To appreciate what happened next, you must remember: 1) the home-end of Slim’s rope was tied solid to the saddle horn; 2) he