The Further Adventures of Hank the Cowdog Read online

  The Further Adventures of Hank the Cowdog

  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

  First published in the United States of America by Maverick Books, Inc. 1983,

  Texas Monthly Press, 1988, and Gulf Publishing Company, 1990.

  Subsequently published simultaneously by Viking Children’s Books and Puffin Books, members of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 1999.

  Currently published by Maverick Books, Inc., 2011.

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © John R. Erickson, 1983

  All rights reserved

  library of congress cataloging-in-publication data

  Erickson, John R.

  The further adventures of Hank the Cowdog / John R. Erickson ; illustrations by Gerald L. Holmes.

  p. cm.

  Originally published in series: Hank the Cowdog ; 2.

  Summary: Hank the Cowdog almost loses his job as Head of Ranch Security when he develops a case of Eye-crosserosis.

  ISBN 1-59188-102-1 (pbk.)

  [1. Dogs—Fiction. 2. West (U.S.)—Fiction. 3. Humorous stories. 4. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Holmes, Gerald L., ill. II. Title. III. Series: Erickson, John R. Hank the Cowdog ; 2.

  PZ7.E72556Fu 1999 [fic]—dc21 [II 1b11 08-27-98] 98-41812 CIP ACHank 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 children, Scot, Ashley, and Mark

  Contents

  Chapter One: The Silver Peril

  Chapter Two: Egged On by Pete

  Chapter Three: Stricken with Eye-Crosserosis

  Chapter Four: Surprised, or You Might Even Say Shocked

  Chapter Five: Top Secret Material

  Chapter Six: Drover Turns on the Dearest Friend He Has in This World

  Chapter Seven: Tricked, Led Astray, and Abandoned to a Terrible Fate

  Chapter Eight: The Chopped Chicken Liver Mystery

  Chapter Nine: Invited for Breakfast

  Chapter Ten: Madame Moonshine

  Chapter Eleven: War!

  Chapter Twelve: Home Again

  Chapter One: The Silver Peril

  It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. As I recall, it was the 14th of May when the silver monster bird swooped down on the ranch and threatened us with death and destruction.

  Or was it May 15th? Could have been the 16th. Anyway . . .

  Silver monster birds are huge creatures with a body that’s long and skinny, resembles the body of a snake, which makes me think they might be a cross-breed between a bird and a reptile. The head sort of confirms that, because it has a sharp nose and two wicked eyes.

  In other words, it ain’t your usual bird head. Oh yes, did I mention that they don’t have a beak? No beak whatsoever. That’s a pretty important clue right there. It ain’t natural. Show me a bird without a beak and I’ve got some questions to ask him.

  Another thing about the silver monster birds is that they have shiny feathers—not your usual dull brown or glossy black, but bright, shiny silver feathers. And a lot of the monster birds will have a white marking on the side which resembles a star.

  They have big drooping wings with several things growing out of the underside. I call them “things” because I don’t have a technical term for them yet. Whatever they are, starlings and blackbirds and sparrows don’t have them. They may be poison stingers, I don’t know.

  These silver monster birds don’t flap their wings. They glide like a buzzard or a hawk. And did I mention that they roar? Yes sir, they roar, and I mean LOUD. Your ordinary bird doesn’t do that. He might cheep or squawk or sing a little tune, but you very rarely find one that roars.

  It’s the roar that makes the silver monster birds a little scary. It takes a special kind of dog to stand up to that roar, hold his ground, and keep on barking. I suspect that even some cowdogs would run from that terrible sound, but on this ranch we don’t run from danger. We run to it.

  Anyway, one day last week I caught a silver monster bird trying to slip onto the ranch. He should have known he couldn’t get away with it. I mean, that roar is a dead give-away. My ears are very sensitive to certain sounds and there aren’t too many roars that get past me.

  Drover and I had put in a long night patrolling headquarters, fairly routine, as I recall. About the only excitement came a little after midnight when Drover got into a scuffle with a cricket. I told him to save his energy for bigger stuff. I mean, crickets cause a certain amount of damage around the place, but they ain’t what you’d call a major threat.

  I figger Pete can handle the cricket department and we’ll take care of the more dangerous assignments. ’Course the problem with that is that Pete won’t do it. Too lazy. He’s a typical cat, but I don’t want to get started on cats.

  Anyway, Drover and I came in from night patrol and bedded down under the gas tanks. I scratched around on my gunnysack and got it fluffed up just right and had curled up for a long nap, when all at once I heard it.

  My right ear went up. My ears are highly trained, don’t you see, and they sort of have a mind of their own. I can be dead asleep and lost in beautiful dreams, but those ears never sleep. They never go off duty. (This is fairly typical of your blue-ribbon, top-of-the-line cowdogs.)

  I suppose I was dreaming about Beulah again. Derned woman is hard to get off my mind. I don’t let women distract me during working hours, but sometimes I lose control when I’m asleep. I mean, a guy can keep an iron grip on himself only so long. Every once in a while he kind of goes to seed.

  Well, I heard the roar. My right ear went up. My left ear went up. I glanced around. “Beulah?”

  My sawed-off, short-haired, stub-tailed assistant lifted his head and stared at me. “I’m not Beulah. I’m Drover.”

  I studied the runt for a second, and my head began to clear. “I know who you are.”

  “How come you called me Beulah?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I’m almost sure you did.”

  “Drover, almost sure might be close enough for some lines of work, but in the security business you have to be positive. You need to work on that.”

  “Okay, Hank.”

  “Now, what’s that noise?”

  Drover looked up in the trees and rolled his eyes. “I don’t hear any . . .” And right then he heard the roar. His eyes got as big as saucers and he started to shiver. “What is it, Hank?”

  “I don’t know, but we’re fixing to find out. I’ve got a hunch that it’s a silver monster bird.”

  I turned my head just for a second, and when I looked back, Drover was gone. At first I thought he might have headed for the machine shed, but then I saw his gunnysack quivering.

  “Get out from under there! We’ve got work to do. I’m puttin
g this ranch under Red Alert.”

  “But Hank, that thing roars!”

  The roar was getting louder all the time. “Come on, son, it’s time for battle stations. If that bird lands, it’s liable to be a fight to the death.”

  “But Hank, I . . . my foot hurts and I got a headache.”

  I took a corner of his gunnysack in my teeth and jerked it away. And there was Drover, my assistant Head of Ranch Security, quivering like a tub full of raw liver. “Get up and stay behind me. This ain’t drill. This is Red Alert.”

  “Okay, Hank, I’ll try but . . . Red Alert’s pretty serious, isn’t it . . . oh, my foot hurts!”

  I took the lead and went streaking out into the pasture south of the house. I headed straight to the big dead cottonwood between the house and the creek and set up a forward position. I could see him now, coming in low over the hills and heading straight toward us.

  It was a silver monster bird, all right, one of the biggest I’d ever seen. He had his big droopy wings out and his eyes were going back and forth across the ground. He was looking for something to swoop down on and kill. I could see that right off. I mean, if you’ve seen as many of these monster birds as I have, you sort of learn to read their thoughts.

  This one had murder on his mind.

  “Okay, Drover, listen up. I don’t want to repeat myself. We’ve got steers in this home pasture. That’s what the monster bird’s after, them steers. He’s gonna try to swoop down and pick up a steer and fly off with him.”

  Drover’s teeth were chattering. “A whole steer!”

  “Yes sir. They dive down and snatch ’em up and eat ’em in the air, and I mean bones and hair and teeth, ears, tail, everything. It’s our job to keep him from doing that.”

  “What would he do . . . if he caught a dog instead of a steer?”

  “We don’t have an answer to that question.”

  “I . . . I’d kind of like to know before we do anything radical.”

  “Use your imagination.”

  “My leg hurts, Hank. I think I better . . .”

  “Stand your ground and listen. When I count to three, we’ll go over the top and let him have it. Don’t save anything back. If he comes in low enough, we’ll try to grab him.

  “Grab him! But Hank, what would we do with him?”

  I studied on that for a second. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I guess just bite and scratch and fight for your life. You ready?”

  “No.”

  “Well, ready or not, this is it—combat, Red Alert.” I peeked over the top of the log. He was heading straight toward us.

  “Oh my gosh, Hank, look how big he is, and his eyes, and his wings are smoking!”

  “One!”

  “Hank, my leg . . .”

  “Two!”

  “. . . is killing me.”

  “Three! Attack, Drover! Charge! Bonsai!”

  I leaped over the dead tree and threw myself into the monster bird’s path. It was him or me. I bared my fangs and set up a ferocious bark, probably the ferociousest bark I ever made.

  The roar was deafening. I mean, it shook the ground. Never heard anything quite so loud or frightful in all my career. No ordinary dog could have stood his ground against that thing.

  He kept coming, so I leaped into the air and snapped at him. Another foot or two and I might have put a fang-lock on him, but when he saw my teeth coming at him, he made the only sensible decision and quit the country.

  I mean, he pointed himself north and evacuated, and he never looked back. The smoke and roar faded into the distance.

  “And don’t you ever try that again!” I yelled at him as he went past. “Next time, you won’t get off so easy.”

  I turned to Drover. He was lying flat on the ground with his paws over his ears. His eyes were shut tight. He wouldn’t get no medals for bravery, but at least he hadn’t run.

  “Okay, Drover, you can come out now.”

  “Are we dead?”

  “Nope. Against near impossible odds, we just whipped a silver monster bird.”

  Drover cracked his eyes, looked around in a full circle, and sat up. “How bad was it?”

  “How bad? Almost beyond description, Drover. When he had me in his claws . . .”

  “He had you in his claws, no fooling?”

  “You didn’t see it? Yup, he had these enormous claws with big hooks on the end, and he reached down and grabbed me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What did I do? Well, I called on an old trick that my granddaddy once told me about. I tore off his whole leg and left him with a bloody stump.”

  “You did?”

  “Certainly did. Why do you think he flew away in such a hurry? I mean, that bird was scared when he left out of here, and I have my doubts that we’ll ever see him again.”

  Drover looked around. “Where’s the leg?”

  “Oh, it’s around here somewhere. We’ll run into it one of these days. Can’t miss it. Heck, it was almost as big as this tree.”

  “You want me to look for it?”

  “Not now. I don’t know about you, Drover, but I’m ready to shower out and shut her down for a few hours. I think we’ve earned ourselves some sleep.”

  And with that, we headed for our favorite spot on the ranch, the place just west of the house where the septic tank overflows and forms a beautiful pool of green water.

  Chapter Two: Egged On by Pete

  In the security business, you learn to live your life a day at a time because you never know if you’ll make it past that next monster. Any one of them is liable to be your last.

  A lot of dogs can’t handle that kind of pressure, but there’s others of us who kind of thrive on danger. When you’re in that category, you learn to savor the precious moments. I mean the little things that most dogs take for granted.

  Like a roll in the sewer after a big battle. There’s nothing quite like it, believe me. You come in hot and bloody and tore up and wore out, proud of yourself on the one hand but just derned near exhausted on the other hand, and you walk up to that pool of lovely green water and . . . well, it’s hard to describe the wonderfulness of it.

  That first plunge is probably the best, when you step in and plop down and feel the water moving over your body. Then you roll around and kick your legs in the air and let your nose feast on that deep manly aroma.

  Your poodles and your Chihuahuas and your other varieties of house dogs never know the savage delight of a good ranch bath. If they ever found what they’re missing, they’d never be the same again. There’s just something about it that makes a dog proud to be a dog.

  Well, I climbed out of the sewer and shook myself and sat down in the warm sunshine. Drover was still standing in water up to his knees. I noticed that he hadn’t rolled around in it. He never does. He just wades in and stands there, looking stiff and uncomfortable.

  “How do you expect to get clean if you don’t get yourself wet?”

  He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like to get wet.”

  “This water has special power, son. It revives the spirit.”

  He kind of dipped down and got his brisket wet and scampered out on dry land. “There. I feel much better now.”

  I just shook my head. Sometimes Drover acts more like a cat than a cowdog. Makes me wonder . . . oh well.

  We sunned ourselves for a few minutes, then headed on down to the gas tanks. I had a gunnysack bed down there with my name on it and I was all set to pour myself into it. I was fluffing it up again and getting it arranged just right when I heard the back door slam up at the house.

  I perked my ears and listened. When the back door slams at that hour of the morning, it often means that Sally May has busted the yoke on Loper’s breakfast egg. He won’t eat busted eggs, for reasons which I don’t understand. Seems to me tha
t an egg’s an egg, and after a guy chews it up and swallers it, it’s all about the same anyway.

  But Loper doesn’t see it that way, which is fine with me because around here, in Co-op dog food country, an egg in any form is a gourmet delight.

  I cut my eyes toward Drover. He had his chin resting on his front paws and was drifting off to sleep. He hadn’t heard the door slam, and I didn’t see that it was my duty to tell him about it.

  I slipped away from the gas tanks and loped up the hill. Had my taste buds all tuned up for a fried egg when I met Pete. He was going the same direction I was.

  “Get lost, cat. Nobody called your name.”

  He gave me a hateful look and hissed. Well, you know me. I try to live by the Golden Rule: “Do unto others but don’t take trash off the cats.” Pete was in the market for a whipping, seemed to me, so I obliged him. Figgered I might as well get it over with, while it was fresh on both our minds.

  I jumped him, rolled him, buried him, cuffed him a couple of times, and generally gave him a stern warning about how cats are supposed to behave. After I’d settled that little matter, I trotted up to the yard gate, ready for my egg.

  Sally May was standing there with her hands on her hips. I sat down and swept the ground with my tail, gave her a big smile and sat up on my back legs.

  I picked up this little begging trick some years ago. It was pretty tough to learn—I mean, it takes balance and coordination and considerable athletic ability—but it’s paid off more than once. People seem to love it. They like to see a dog beg for what they’re going to give him anyway. Don’t ask me why, but they do.

  Begging sort of goes against my grain. I mean, my ma was no ordinary mutt. She had papers and everything and cowdog pride was sort of bred into me. But a guy has to make a living, and now and then he finds himself cutting a few corners.

  Well, I went up on my hind legs. Sometimes I get my balance the first time and sometimes I don’t. This time it worked. I balanced myself on two legs, and then to add a special touch, I wagged my tail and moved my front paws at the same time.