The Mopwater Files Read online

  The Case of the Mopwater Files

  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 Gulf Publishing Company, 1997.

  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., 2013

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © John R. Erickson, 1997

  All rights reserved

  Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-128-5

  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 Kit and Geraldine

  Contents

  Chapter One Total Meltdown on the Ranch

  Chapter Two Drover Eats a Grasshopper

  Chapter Three I’m Forced to Humble the Cat

  Chapter Four Grasshoppers Taste Yucko

  Chapter Five My Tremendous Scientific Discovery

  Chapter Six I Prepare to Thrash the Neighborhood Bully

  Chapter Seven Poisoned by Mopwater

  Chapter Eight Higher Duty Calls Me to Battle

  Chapter Nine Madame Moonshine Is Captured by Cannibals

  Chapter Ten The Singing Ignoramuses

  Chapter Eleven I Manage to Save Madame Moonshine

  Chapter Twelve Caution: Scary Ending

  Chapter Thirteen There Isn’t a Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen The Story’s Over, Go Home

  Chapter One: Total Meltdown on the Ranch

  It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. Have we ever discussed the Mopwater Files? Maybe not, because it’s still Highly Classified information and we’re not ready to go public with it.

  We may never go public with it. It’s too secret. Oh, and it has a scary ending. You wouldn’t like it.

  That’s too bad. It was a pretty interesting case but I’m just not in a position to . . .

  Do you remember Rufus the Doberman Pin­­s­cher? Big guy, little green eyes, sharp-pointed ears, long fangish teeth. A terrible bully, always tormenting Miss Beulah the Collie, and you talk about ugly! He was ugly, inside and out.

  It’s still hard to believe that I actually challenged that guy to a fight to the death, but then came the bucket of toxic mopwater and . . .

  Oops. I wasn’t supposed to reveal anything about the case. Forget I said anything. Why, if this information fell into the wrong hands . . . just forget it. That’s all I can say.

  What were we talking about? Oh yes, the weather. It was the middle of the summer, see, and hotter than blue blazes. It had been hot for days and weeks, and there I was, wearing a fur coat.

  Yellowjacket wasps hummed in the still air and you could see heat waves shimmering on the horizon. The wind had quit blowing. The windmills had quit pumping. The cowboys had quit working.

  I had started out the morning in a nice piece of shade beneath the gas tanks, but by eleven o’clock the shade had . . . I don’t know what happened to it. It had burned up or boiled away or something, and I found myself lying in the scorching glare of the sun.

  What a cheap trick! I had to summon up huge reserves of energy to move myself to another piece of shade on the west side of the storage tank. It was tough, let me tell you, and I just barely made it.

  But you know what? Something happened to that shade too, and within an hour I was roasting again. And all at once I faced the toughest decision of the day: would I get up and move my freight to another shady spot, or would I just lie there and roast?

  I raised my head and studied the situation. I could see the shade. There it was, not more than six inches from my present location, but to get there, I would have to go through the entire Jack Up and Move procedure, just as though I were moving halfway across the ranch.

  That doesn’t seem fair, does it? If a guy travels no more than a few inches, he shouldn’t have to go to all that trouble. Think about it. Raise head. Position legs under body. Push up on front legs. Push up on back legs. Coordinate the Walking Pattern for all four feet. Walk six inches to the west. Collapse.

  It wasn’t fair. It was an outrage, and I decided that I wouldn’t do it. By George, I would just lie there in the sun and roast. That would teach them . . . whoever They were . . . and I hoped They would take notice and quit messing around with my shade.

  I laid my head down and began roasting. I heard my deep breathing and listened to the stupid flies buzzing around my ears. I hate ’em. If I’d had more energy, I would have raised up and snapped ’em all out of the air.

  Snapped ’em out of the air and chewed ’em up into little bitty pieces of legs and wings, and then spit ’em all out on the ground. That’s what a fly deserves and that was how much I hated the little tormenting devils, but I didn’t have the energy to initiate a good Anti-fly Defense Program.

  So I just lay there in the sun and roasted, and let the flies walk around my ears . . . over my face . . .

  Into my nose?

  Okay, that did it! They could have the ears but no fly walks into my nose. I lifted my head and cut loose a withering barrage of snapping. I missed them all, but they got the message and left my nose alone.

  And, what the heck, once I had gone to all the trouble to raise my head, I figured I might as well go on into Jack Up and Move. I jacked myself up, staggered five steps to the west, and collapsed.

  Whew! I was exhausted, but at least I wasn’t roasting. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. That’s what I needed. Sleep. About two weeks of solid sleep.

  Unfortunately, Slim the Cowboy came along just then. I cracked one eye but didn’t lift my head. Too exhausted. Slim was a pretty good fellow, but not so good that I could afford to squander a lot of energy saying hello. Not in this heat.

  He stopped in the same piece of shade that I was occupying. He pulled a bandanna out of his hip pocket and mopped his face.

  “Boy, it’s hot. The weather report’s prescribing another day over a hundred. This’ll make about five days in a row.”

  Yes, I was aware of that.

  “It kind of saps a guy of energy, don’t it, Hankie?”

  Right.

  “And you’re just going to lay there in the shade, aren’t you?”

  Yep.

  “You’re not even going to jump up and wag your tail and tell me how wonderful I am, are you?”

  Nope.

  “It kind of hurts my feelings, Hankie.”

  Life is hard.

  “Well, I wish I could just lay around in the shade, but some of us have to work for a living.”

  That was a cheap shot. For his information, I not only had a job but a very important job. It just happened that . . . well, I had run out of energy and ambition.

  You won’t believe this. He flopped down on the gravel drive and pillowed
his head on my rib cage. Had I invited him to . . . urg . . . put his sweaty head in the middle of my poor exhausted body? No. I considered taking countermeasures but . . . too much trouble.

  “Ahhh! That’s better, but you’re awful bony for a pillow.”

  Well, if he didn’t like my bones, he could go find a jellyfish. And speaking of bones, his head wasn’t any featherbed. It was solid bone and it was heavy and hot and I didn’t need it on my rib cage, thank you.

  “Boy, this heat is terrible. It didn’t used to bother me, but it sure does now. I’ve got thirty-seven jobs to do and enough energy for about three of ’em.”

  Me too.

  “Too many birthdays, Hank. Don’t you reckon that’s the main problem?”

  I had no opinion on that.

  At last he raised up to a sitting position. He looked down at me and grinned. I summoned up the energy to whap my tail on the ground three times. Whew!

  “Well, this has been fun, Hankie, but I’d better go pack them wheel bearings on the stock trailer. I can already tell that you ain’t going to do it.”

  Correcto.

  With much grunting and muttering, he pushed himself up and shuffled off to the machine shed.

  At last, peace and quiet. I closed my eyes and began floating out on the sea of snoik morkus skittlebomb . . .

  Huh? My eyes popped open. Someone had moved my shade again! Was this some kind of joke? What was the deal? Every time I got comfortable, some idiot . . .

  I summoned my last reserves of energy and . . . Drover? There he was in front of me, giving me his usual foolish grin.

  “Hi Hank. What you doing?”

  “What I’m doing is trying to sleep, Drover, and restore my precious bodily fluids, but some maniac keeps moving my shade around. Did you see anybody messing with my shade?”

  “Well, let me think here. I saw Slim.”

  “No, it wasn’t him. I had him under constant surveillance.”

  “Boy, that’s a big word.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I wonder what it means.”

  I dragged myself back into the shade and flopped down. “I don’t know what it means. I don’t have the energy to explain it. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. Sure is hot, isn’t it?”

  I glared ice picks at him. “Yes it is, Drover, so why are you so chirpy?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been watching the chickens chase grasshoppers.”

  “Great.”

  “You ever watch a chicken chase a grasshopper?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s kind of neat, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “I mean, they’re pretty good at it.”

  “It’s their busi­ness, Drover. If you’re a chicken, that’s what you do. Good night.”

  “Good night . . . only it’s the middle of the day.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Boy, it sure is hot.”

  “That’s why I’m shaded up, Drover. It’s too hot to do any work, so snorkle the mirking piffle.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t sleep and I get bored. You ever get bored?”

  “Snork.”

  “I do. You ever try to catch a grasshopper?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither, but I bet I could. Want me to try?”

  “Sure. Go catch a pifflehopper.”

  “Okay, Hank, here I go.”

  At last! Peace and quiet. I sank into the warm embrace of a delicious dream and . . . Beulah? My goodness, there she was in all her splintering glory: the deep brown eyes, the flaxen hair, the perfect collie nose, the smile that said . . .

  Chapter Two: Drover Eats a Grasshopper

  “I caught one, Hank!”

  I lifted my head and opened both eyes and looked at the front in face of me. “Beulah?”

  “No, a grasshopper.”

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  “Well, let’s see. My name’s Drover and I’m your best friend and I just caught a grasshopper.”

  “Just because you’re a grasshopper doesn’t mean you’re a friend of mine. Where am I?” I blinked my eyes. “Okay, it’s coming back now. You’re Drover.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “There for a second, I thought you were Beulah.”

  “No, it must have been me, ’cause I’m all I’ve ever been.”

  I stared at the runt. “What?”

  “I said, I’m all I’ve ever been but I caught a grass­hopper.”

  “That doesn’t make a lick of sense.” All at once, he licked his chops. “Will you stop that?”

  “Stop what?”

  “I’ve told you over and over not to do that.”

  “What did I do?”

  “I said that you’re not making a lick of sense and . . .” He licked his chops again! “There, you see? You keep doing it. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Well, I can’t help it.”

  I hoisted myself up to a sitting position and turned a withering glare on my . . . whatever he was. My nitwit assistant, I guess.

  “Of course you can help it. It’s a totally absurd and meaningless gesture.”

  “Not really. See, I ate a grasshopper and that’s why I was licking my chops.”

  “You ATE a grasshopper?”

  “Yep, I sure did. Caught him with my own two paws and ate him with my own mouth.”

  I gave my head a shake. “Drover, that’s disgusting. Eating a grasshopper? Son, chickens eat grass­hoppers, but dogs don’t.”

  “Yeah, but I did.”

  “That’s appalling.”

  “No, it was appealing.”

  “Don’t correct my spelling and don’t try to put words into my mouth. I said it was appalling and that’s exactly what I meant.”

  “Yeah, but I ate the grasshopper and you didn’t, so maybe you don’t know how it tasted.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “I can’t believe you said that. Have you no respect for your elders, your betters, your superiors? Just because I’ve never eaten a grasshopper, you think I don’t know how they taste?”

  “Well, that makes sense to me.”

  “I’m shocked, Drover, shocked and dismayed and disappointed that you would . . . okay, just for the sake of argument, how did it taste?”

  He grinned. “Well . . . it was pretty good.”

  “See? I gave you a chance to express yourself and what did you do?”

  “Well . . . I told the truth.”

  “No, you didn’t tell the truth. You contradicted my Theory of Grasshoppers, is what you did, and if you can’t give the right answer, what good is freedom of speech?”

  “Well, I don’t know. But I ate a grasshopper and it was pretty good. And you ought to try one yourself.”

  I curled my lip. “I will never eat a grasshopper. Bird dogs will fly before I eat a grasshopper. Hogs will ride sidesaddles before I eat a grasshopper.”

  “They’re better than you think.”

  “No sale, Drover.”

  “And they’re better than dry dog food.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “They taste kind of like chicken.”

  “Well, of course they do, because that’s what chickens eat.”

  “Yeah, and you like the taste of chicken, don’t you?”

  “No, I . . .” All at once it appeared that my mouth was watering, as I, uh, recalled several delicious ultra-secret chicken dinners I had . . .

  I licked my chops, so to speak, and was unable to answer the question.

  Drover grinned. “See? I said ‘chicken’ and you licked your chops, and that’s proof that you like chicken.”

  “I did not lick my chops, and even if I had, it wo
uld prove almost nothing, for you see, Drover, ranch dogs are forbidden to eat . . . slurp . . . chickens—for good and obvious reasons.”

  “Yeah, but that’s my point.”

  I gave him a hard glare. “Your point? Who or whom do you think you are, and when did you start putting points into your pointless conver­sations?”

  “Well, I don’t know, but I’ve got one now. You want to hear it?”

  I heaved a sigh. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  His grin faded. “Gosh, I just lost it. I can’t remember. Oh darn.”

  “Will you hurry up? I’m a very busy dog.”

  “Okay, here we go, I’ve got it. The point is that grasshoppers taste like chicken, so when you eat a grass­hopper, it’s almost like eating a chicken.”

  I licked my chops. “Hmmm. Not a bad point, actu­­ally. And you know, Sally May hates grass­hoppers.”

  “Yeah, ’cause they eat up her garden.”

  “Exactly. So we’re looking at possible bonus points here. Hmmm.” I ran that one through my data banks. “I find only one major flaw in your ointment, Drover. The back legs of a grasshopper are known to have spurs or barbs, which might lodge in the throats of certain dogs.”

  He grinned and shrugged. “Well, they didn’t bother me. I guess you have to chew ’em up, is all.”

  “Hmmm, yes. But we still have one problem, Drover. I don’t have the energy to catch a grass­hopper. It’s this heat. It drains me of all energy and ambition. I don’t want to do anything but sleep. It’s very discouraging.”

  “Well, maybe a couple of fresh grasshoppers would help. They always seem to have plenty of energy, and so do the chickens.”

  “Hmmm.” I heaved a sigh and pushed myself up on all fours. “Okay, Drover, I’ll give it a shot. But if this doesn’t work, I’ll have to put it on your record.”

  We made our way down to the yard gate. I happened to know that Sally May was out working in her yard, for I had seen her there before my nap . . . that is, before I had checked into the shade for, uh, treatment of extreme exhaustion and loss of precious bodily fluids.

  I knew she was out there, working and slaving in the heat of the day, in a heroic effort to beautify her house and therefore the ranch itself. I admired her dedication to greenery and beauty and so forth, and would have done almost anything to help her out.