The Case of the Three Rings by John R. Erickson Page B

spring, right? We were still in wintertime. It was the last day of December, New Year’s Eve day to be exact, the very day that Slim and I learned a lot more about gathering buffalo than we ever wanted to know, but that comes later. At this point in the story, you’re not supposed to know about the scary part.
    You heard nothing about buffalo, right? Thanks.
    Okay, Drover and I had spent the past week camped out at Slim’s bachelor shack, two miles east of ranch headquarters. We often camped there in the winter because Slim was kind enough to let us sleep inside the house, near his wood-burning stove.
    See, our main office at ranch headquarters can be a little drafty in the dead of winter. I mean, sometimes I speak of it as “our Vast Office Complex,” but the truth is, it consists of two old gunny sacks beneath a pair of three hundred gallon fuel tanks. No heater and no walls to stop the whistling north wind that often comes in the winter months.
    I’m not whining or complaining, and I’m not going to say a word about Management being too CHEAP to build us the kind of office complex we deserve. I’m sure Loper had his reasons for putting the entire Security Division in a cramped, drafty little FLEABAG OF AN OFFICE beneath the gas tanks, although I can’t imagine what they were.
    On the other hand, Slim Chance, the hired hand on our outfit, had an enlightened policy about Dogs In The House, and in the depths of winter, we often chose to move the entire staff two miles down the creek to his place. There, in the Security Division’s Winter Headquarters, we conducted ranch business in the living room, beside a big, friendly, wood-burning stove.
    That’s where we were on that Saturday morning, New Year’s Eve day of whatever year it was, and the time had come for us to greet the Master of the House and find out what in thunder he was doing, wandering around the house at three o’clock in the morning.
    You’ll see. It was pretty strange.

Chapter Two: Slim’s Fateful Decision

    D rover and I were on our way to the kitchen to wish Slim the good-morningest of good mornings, when we met him coming into the living room. He had just finished gnawing on a cold turkey neck. He wore flannel pajamas, his hair was a mess, and there was an odd expression on his face: distracted and very serious.
    The man had something on his mind and that was odd. I got the feeling that he’d been thinking about something during the night and we were fixing to hear about it.
    I gave Drover the signal to cancel Happy Dog and Good Morning, and we shifted into a program called Dogs Who Listen. It’s a dandy program but pretty difficult to pull off. It requires that we mirror the moods of our people, don’t you see. If they look thoughtful, we look thoughtful. If they want to talk, we listen.
    The reason it’s a tough program is that it requires a high level of concentration. As you might expect, Drover isn’t very good at that, because he has a lot of trouble staying on task. When we’re doing Dogs Who Listen, we can’t scratch or fall asleep. You’d be surprised at how crabby our people get when they confide in their dogs, and we scratch or fall asleep.
    We sat down on the living room floor and waited to hear what this was all about. Wearing a deep scowl, Slim paced two circles around the room, then stopped beside the stove and stared at the floor. “Dogs, I can’t sleep. A week ago, I done a terrible thing and it’s eating me up.”
    Drover and I exchanged glances. What was this? Slim had done a terrible deed and we didn’t know about it? I inched closer so that I could hear every word.
    â€œI asked a fine lady if she’d marry me, and she said yes. Now my conscience won’t give me a minute’s peace. I think she was feeling sorry for me, is why she said yes, and I’m betting that she’s changed her mind, only she’s too nice