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  The Almost Last Roundup

  John R. Erickson

  Illustrations by Gerald L. Holmes

  Maverick Books, Inc.

  Publication Information

  MAVERICK BOOKS

  Published by Maverick Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 549, Perryton, TX 79070

  Phone: 806.435.7611

  www.hankthecowdog.com

  Published in the United States of America by Maverick Books, Inc., 2015

  Copyright © John R. Erickson, 2015

  All rights reserved

  Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-165-0

  Hank the Cowdog® is a registered trademark of John R. Erickson.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Dedication

  To my best students: Mark Erickson, Nathan Dahlstrom, and Nikki Georgacakis.

  Contents

  Chapter One Hard Times

  Chapter Two Okie Dokie Doodle

  Chapter Three The Charlies Capture Sally May

  Chapter Four Alfred and I Help Slim

  Chapter Five An Unscheduled Food Event

  Chapter Six here Are No Teensie Weensie Temptations

  Chapter Seven A Huge Moral Victory Over the Cat

  Chapter Eight Fire!

  Chapter Nine Gloom Falls Over the Ranch

  Chapter Ten A Great Song

  Chapter Eleven On the Long, Dusty Trail

  Chapter Twelve A Change of Plans

  Chapter One: Hard Times

  It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. On my ranch, we’d seen summers that were hot and summers that were dry, but we’d never seen anything like the kind of hot and dry we were going through in…whatever year it was.

  We hadn’t gotten much snow over the winter months, and we missed the spring rains that usually come in April and May. Then came the summer heat. Bad. Awful. Not just one or two blistering days every week, but day after day of temperatures over a hundred degrees, and a constant life-sucking wind out of the southwest.

  Our hay field produced about half the number of bales it should have. Ponds dried up. Wolf Creek shrank down to a trickle. Pastures turned into burned toast. Cow trails grew deeper and dustier.

  Trees were starting to die, and we’re talking about native trees: hackberries, elms, cottonwoods, and even cedars. Fellers, when the cedars turn up their toes, you know you’re in a bad drought, because those old cedars are tougher than boot leather.

  We had no wildflowers that year, no mosquitoes, and very few grasshoppers. Even the birds quit us. You know me, I’m no fan of noisy birds, but for crying out loud, when all the birds moved out…I hate to admit this, but the ranch seemed kind of lonely without them.

  This would have been a great time for a dog to take a vacation and go visit some place that had penguins and icebergs, but the Security Division gets no vacations and no days off.

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

  The people are tired and filled with doubt.

  And the dogs are sick of this stinking drought.

  So there you are, a pretty neat song about a bad subject. I wish I could report that it brought us a big rain, but it didn’t.

  But life goes on, doesn’t it? In spite of the stinking drought, my day began in its normal fashion. I was up before daylight, staked out my usual position on that little hill north of headquarters, and barked up the sun.

  Once I had that done, and while most people and dogs were still in their beds, I launched the Second Phase of my morning’s routine, a complete and thorough walk-around of ranch headquarters. I checked it out from top to bottom: saddle shed, feed barn, machine shed, sick pen, garden, Emerald Pond, and every square inch of the corrals.

  It took me two hours, and I saw no signs of the Charlie Monsters who showed up later and took Sally May as a hostage. I mean, those guys really caught us…

  Wait. I wasn’t supposed to say anything about that, so let’s pretend that I didn’t. I was misquoted, how does that sound? If any
one asks about the you-know-whats, we know nothing about them at this point in the story and have no comment for the press. I think that’ll work.

  Anyway, after two solid hours of pretty intense sniffing around, I was feeling tired and thirsty, and made a Water Stop at the stock tank in the corrals. As I stepped up on the cement apron, my eyes caught sight of something lying on the shady side of the tank.

  I froze.

  It had a beak, two eyes, and a wild shock of something red on top of its head. In certain respects, it resembled a chicken or maybe a rooster, but I waited for Data Control to run Identity Scan. In my line of work, we have to be very cautious. Our enemies are clever and often use disguises, don’t you see, and sometimes they come creeping into ranch headquarters, wearing chicken suits.

  If this was an enemy agent in a chicken disguise, I needed to know about it.

  A message clicked across the screen of my mind: “Carbon-based organism with feathers. Chicken. Male. Have a nice day.”

  I allowed myself to relax. It was J.T. Cluck, one of our local bird-brains, loafing in the shade, and I didn’t want to waste half an hour of my life listening to him yap about whatever insignificant thoughts were floating through his little rooster mind.

  I began backing away from the tank, in hopes that he might not have seen me. Too late. He cocked his head to the side and squawked, “Oh, there you are. It’s about time you showed up.”

  “Sorry, J.T., I didn’t mean to disturb you. I need to move along.”

  “Not so fast, mister. Every chicken on this ranch has been wanting to talk to you.”

  “I’m a busy dog.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed—busy sleeping. Every time I look around, you’re spread out on that gunny sack bed, pumping out a line of Z’s.”

  “Maybe you should find something else to do, besides snoop on me.”

  “It ain’t snooping. Somebody needs to stay awake and pay attention.”

  “Are you finished?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, I’m just getting cranked up.” He stood up on his skinny legs and leaned closer to my face. “Pooch, we’ve got a crisis a-brewing on this ranch!”

  Chapter Two: Okie Dokie Doodle

  Well, I had been trapped into a conversation with J.T. Cluck, so I figured I might as well make the best of it and hear about the latest “crisis” on the ranch.

  “Okay, talk, and try to skip the boring parts.”

  “Pooch, me and every chicken on this ranch want to know what you’re going to do about this grasshopper shortage.”

  “I’m going to get a drink of water.”

  “Well, whoop-tee-doo. Listen, doggie, we ain’t seen a grasshopper since last October. How’s a chicken supposed to make a living around here?” I lapped water. “Course, you don’t give a rip, ‘cause they give you all that high-dollar grow-pup in a bowl. You might have a different attitude if you had to hustle your own grub.”

  “What are you complaining about? Sally May throws out grain for the chickens every morning.”

  “I know she does, but that stuff gives me heartburn.”

  I groaned. “Don’t start the heartburn stories. I don’t think I can stand it today.”

  He patted his chest and out came a ridiculous little chicken burp. “There, you see? I pecked that grain twenty-four hours ago and it’s still giving me fits. Elsa says I need more gravel in my craw, but that ain’t it. I need good old, honest American grasshoppers. A rooster can’t make a living on stink bugs and scorpions. You ever eat a scorpion?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’ve never had heartburn ‘til you eat one of them little heathens. Son, they’ll bring tears to your eyes. They bite and sting all the way down the pipe. Why, the last time I ate a scorpion…”

  “J.T., is there a point to this?”

  “Huh? A point? Well, sure there is, and I’m a-getting there.” He glanced over his shoulders and dropped his voice. “Pooch, I’ve been a-meaning to talk to you about this. Elsa thinks there’s more to this grasshopper situation than meets the eye.” He waited for me to show some interest. “Are you going to listen to this or spend the rest of your life lapping water?”

  I had drunk my fill, so I sat down beside him. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

  “Well, this is important stuff and it might take longer than that.”

  “If it does, I’ll get up and leave. Hurry up.”

  “All right, I’m a-hurrying.” He leaned toward me. “Pooch, Elsa thinks she knows who’s behind this grasshopper shortage. It’s the British.”

  “Who?”

  “The British. It’s a plot. They’re stealing us blind!”

  I laughed. “That’s ridiculous. We’re in a drought. No rain, no grass, no grasshoppers. It’s all about the weather.”

  He looked up at the sky. “Well, that’s what all the smarties say, but some of us look a little deeper. And maybe you’d better do some checking on it yourself, since you’re the guard dog around here.”

  I heaved a sigh. “Okay, who are the British?”

  “That’s where it gets a little hazy. We ain’t entirely sure.”

  “Oh brother.”

  “But if you’ll hush your mouth for a minute, I’m a-coming to the best part of the story.”

  “Hurry up.”

  He rocked up and down on his toes, and stroked his chin with the tip of a wing. “Pooch, years ago when I was a little chickie, a storm come up from the northwest, big old storm, terrible storm, crash and boom, and I remember it like it happened yesterday. My granddaddy come into the chicken house, a-flapping and a-clucking, and I’ll never forget the words he said.”

  He looked up at the sky. “He was a wonderful gentleman, and you know, he tried to warn me about eating scorpions and centipedes, but like a darned kid, I didn’t pay him any mind, thought I knew everything, and I can trace my heartburn back to the very first time I ate a scorpion. Hadn’t thought of that in years.”

  “He rushed into the chicken house. What did he say?”

  “Huh? Oh, that. Yes, well, he come a-flapping into the chicken house and all of us little chickies was scared to death. There was a bunch of us in that hatch. I had thirteen brothers and sisters.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, he come a-rushing inside and said, ‘Y’all need to run around in circles and flap your wings and cluck, ‘cause the British are coming!’ And since that day, in times of trouble, we run around in circles and yell, ‘The British are coming!’”

  I laughed. “I wondered how that got started.”

  “Well, there it is. It’s a true story, and, mister, I think the British are here, and that’s why we’ve run out of grasshoppers.” He folded his wings across his chest and narrowed his eyes at me. “What do you say to that?”

  “I’m glad you turned in the report, J.T.. I’ll get right to work on it.”

  He was surprised. “Well, I didn’t expect to hear that. You’re actually going to investigate?”

  “Oh yes, no question about it. This is serious stuff.”

  “It sure is if you’re a chicken. How come you’re grinning?”

  “I enjoy my work. Can you give me a description?”

  “Of what? Oh, the British? Let me think here.” He stroked his beak and gazed off into the distance. “Granddad wasn’t real clear on that. The best I can remember, he said they wore funny hats.”

  “On their heads?”

  “Yes, on their heads. That’s where most people wear their hats.”

  “I’m just checking, J.T., it’s part of my job.”

  “That’s fine, as long as you ain’t poking fun.”

  “Oh no. Any other clues or details?”

  “Let me think here. Oh yeah, one of them Britishers called himself Yokie Dandy Doodle. He was a general or something.”

 
“Got it. What else?”

  “Well, he went to town, riding on a donkey.”

  “Very interesting.”

  “There’s more, it’s a-coming back to me. He wore a feather in his cap and ate a macaroni sandwich.”

  “Macaroni sandwich, wow.” I rose to my feet. “Excellent. I’ll open a file on Okie Dokie Doodle and get started on the investigation right away. If he’s been stealing grasshoppers, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  J.T. held me in a searching gaze. “You know, pooch, all these years I’ve misjudged you. I never thought you had sense enough to walk across a road, but I admit that I’m kind of impressed.”

  “Thanks, J.T., impressing roosters is something I’ve always dreamed of doing.”

  “That makes me proud, sure does. Say, did I ever tell you about the time I ate one of them japaleena peppers? Boy, you talk about a fire in the engine room!”

  “Some other time, J.T. I need to get to work on this case. See you around, and watch out for the British.”

  “Sure will, sure will. And you keep me informed, hear?”

  “You bet.”

  I hurried away. Somehow I had managed to get through the conversation without laughing my head off.

  Can you believe that conversation? The British were stealing grasshoppers, Yokie Dokie Doodle…what a bird-brain! And I was supposed to be protecting him from the Bad Guys. Sometimes I wonder…oh well.

  So where were we? Oh yes, after being entertained by J.T. Cluck’s heartburn stories, I headed down to the office, where I found some nice shade and two gunny sack beds. Drover was occupying one of them, conked out asleep, and I slid into the embrace of the other one.

  Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t sleep. No sir, we have pretty strict rules about sleeping during business hours. I needed to conserve my energy, as well as catch up on reports and work out the schedule for Night Patrol. See, sometimes I do my paperwork in bed.

  All of a sudden, I was awakened by a piercing…

  Wait. Let me rephrase that. I wasn’t asleep and therefore couldn’t have been awakened by the scream. I was writing up my notes of the J.T. Cluck Comedy Hour, remember? Yes, that was it. The British were stealing his grasshoppers.