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

was riding a young horse that probably had never been married to a full-grown bull; 3) horse and bull were running hard in opposite directions; and 4) nylon ropes don’t break.
    When they hit the ends of that rope at the same time, the wreck began. It jerked Slim’s horse completely off his feet and he landed on top of Slim. I mean, all I could see of that cowboy was two hands, one boot, and part of a dirty felt hat, sticking out from under a horse that was wallowing around and trying to get up.
    I had witnessed a few wrecks in my time, but this one looked about as nasty as any I could imagine. And it wasn’t over yet.
    The jerk whipped the bull around so hard that he swapped ends and came out of it facing Slim and the horse. And instead of teaching him a lesson, it had just made him madder than ever.
    That bull’s head was shaking with rage. I heard him snort. I heard Little Alfred scream. I heard Slim let out a groan from underneath the horse.
    And then, before my very eyes, the bull lowered his head and charged the horse! And holy smokes, all at once we had a terrorized colt on top of a smashed cowboy, being charged by a huge horned hooking bull that was mad enough to finish the job he’d just started.
    And don’t forget that rope. The horse and the bull were still tied together by that rope.
    And don’t forget that the Head of Ranch Security had been wounded in action and was in no position to rush to anybody’s defense. I mean, I was still trying to get my first breath. I was crippled and badly damaged and beaten to a pulp.
    The bull waded into the wreckage and started working that poor colt over with his horns—and if you think the colt was “poor,” just think about what was underneath him: Slim.
    Wham! Wham! Thud! Snort!
    Oh, that bull had no mercy! Good grief, hadn’t he done enough damage? Did he have to keep on beating on that poor colt with his horns?
    By George, when I saw that, I started getting mad. I jacked myself up off the ground and yelled, “Drover, are you going to stand there and watch this outrage? What are you waiting for? Get your skinny, worthless little stub tail out here and draw some blood!”
    â€œWell . . . you go first, Hank, and then I’ll come.”
    â€œI can’t go first, you moron! I’m wounded and damaged beyond repair. We’ve got a cowboy on the ground and he needs help right now, and you’re next in the chain of command. Attack, charge, Red Alert!”
    â€œOh my gosh! Well, I guess I can . . . I sure hope this old leg of mine . . .”
    I’ll give him credit for trying. He jumped out of the pickup and ran straight for the bull, yipping and squeaking. I’m sure the bull got a chuckle out of that—a sawed-off, stub-tailed squeakbox coming out on the field of battle to do something or other.
    When Drover was about two feet away, the bull made a run at him. Drover not only changed directions in the blink of an eye, but he also destroyed half the sagebrush in that pasture, getting back to the pickup.
    The bull watched this with his wicked, heartless eyes, and it even appeared to me that he was smirking. Then he turned back to his main source of entertainment, beating up on the colt.
    By this time, the colt had wallowed to his feet. He was moon-eyed and trembling all over, waiting to see what this dragon of a bull would try to do to him next.
    My eyes darted to Slim. He was lying facedown in the sand. He hadn’t moved. I could see that he needed my help. I took a limping step in his direction and . . . well, Mr. Bull got the message across to me that I should sit down and shut up, so I, uh . . .
    I sat down and shut up, so to speak.
    I had felt a sinking spell coming on anyway.
    Just taking those two steps had worn me to a frazzle.
    And also, I needed to plan my next move.
    Don’t you see.
    All at once Slim lifted his head and let out a groan. Boy, that was good news! There for a minute,