The Case of the Haystack Kitties Read online

  The Case of the Haystack Kitties

  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, 1998.

  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, 1998

  All rights reserved

  Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-130-8

  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

  For two new Hank fans: Kale Todd Erickson and David Rinker

  Contents

  Chapter One I Catch Drover Doing Ridiculous Things

  Chapter Two Mocked by the Small Minds on the Ranch

  Chapter Three I Discover a Stray Cat in the Haystack

  Chapter Four I Give Momma Cat the Order to Leave

  Chapter Five Feeding Cattle with Slim Can Get Pretty Boring

  Chapter Six Beware: This Chapter Is Very Scary

  Chapter Seven The Runaway Pickup Plunges into the Bottomless Creek

  Chapter Eight Slim’s Mackerel Sandwiches Are Poisonous

  Chapter Nine Bummer: I Get Drafted to Guard the Stack Lot

  Chapter Ten Surrounded by a Bunch of Urchin Cats

  Chapter Eleven The Bull Comes and Attacks the Poor Cats

  Chapter Twelve Motherhood Wins the Day!

  Chapter One: I Catch Drover Doing Ridiculous Things

  It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. The day began just as many other days had started. I barked up the sun exactly at daylight, barked at a mockingbird that was making a nuisance of himself in one of those elm trees near the gas tanks, and did a routine patrol of the corrals.

  Little did I know or suspect that before the day was done, I would be trapped in a runaway pickup or that I would discover a nest of trespassing stray cats in the haystack. Or that I would do battle with a raging bull.

  Pretty busy day, huh? But I didn’t know any of that, and you’re not supposed to know it either, so just forget that I mentioned it.

  In every way, it appeared to be just another day on the ranch, a normal day in other words, in the late spring or early summer. The first of May, I guess it was. Yes, because Sally May had planted her garden, and the chinaberry trees were beginning to bloom, and the cottonwoods along the creek had begun putting out cotton.

  Have we discussed cottonwoods and cotton? Maybe not. Cottonwood trees are called cottonwood trees for three reasons. Number One, they are trees. Number Two, their trunks contain wood. And Number Three, the leafy portion of the tree produces little seeds that resemble puffs of cotton, and in the springtime the air is filled with them.

  Hencely, if you put those three elements together—tree, wood, and cotton—you come up with the name of the tree. No, wait a minute. If you put them together, you’d come up with . . . hang on just a second whilst I do some figuring . . . you’d come up with “treewood cotton,” which is not the name of the tree. It’s not the name of anything. It’s gibberish.

  So what we have to do is take those same three elements—tree, wood, and cotton—and reverse the order, see, and that gives us the correct answer, which is “cottonwood tree.”

  Pretty slick, huh? You bet it is. How many dogs can tell you everything about trees? Not many. Very few. Most of your ordinary ranch mutts have only one use for a tree and couldn’t care less about where the name comes from.

  You might be wondering what this discussion of cottonwood trees has to do with the mysteries that were about to unfold on that particular day. Well . . . not much, actually, except that when I returned to my office around eight o’clock that morning, I caught Drover in the act of . . . you won’t believe this. Even I found it hard to believe.

  I mean, I’ve served on this ranch with Drover for . . . how many years? A lot. We’ve shared the same bedroom-office under the gas tanks, worked many cases together, solved many mysteries, shared the same bowl of Co-op dog food, and you’d think that after all that, I would have seen every dumb stunt that Drover could come up with.

  Nope. On that particular morning, I caught the little mutt . . . chasing puffs of cottonwood cotton. That was a new one. I’d watched him chase butter­flies, grasshoppers, frogs, and crickets. I’d seen him snap at snowflakes and cinders from burning garbage. But I had never supposed that I would . . . so forth, but I did.

  I sat down on my gunnysack bed and watched. He was so wrapped up in his little adventure, he didn’t even notice me.

  Here came a puff of cotton floating through the air. Drover spotted it and crouched down.

  He watched it coming. His ears were up, and his eyes were locked on the target. When it passed over­head, he sprang into the air and snapped at it. He missed, of course, and hurled himself at it again and snapped again, and landed on his back in the dirt.

  I guess he caught it the second time. Anyway, it disappeared.

  Well, that was enough. I rose from my gunnysack and marched over to him. He was still lying on the ground, huffing and puffing, and looking pretty proud of himself.

  “Oh, hi Hank. Did you see what I just did?”

  “Yes, I saw it, the whole thing.”

  “Pretty good, huh? I snapped it right out of the air, and I got it on the first shot.”

  “You got it on the second shot.”

  “Oh. Maybe that was it. I almost got it on the first shot, and then I sure ’nuff got it on the second.”

  I took a deep breath and looked around to see if we were alone. What I had to say was going to be embarrassing, and I didn’t want anyone outside of the Security Division to hear it.

  “Drover, we need to have a little talk.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes, we do. It has come to my attention that you often engage in behavior that is . . . how shall I put this?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Heroic?”

  “No.”

  “Courageous and bold?”

  “No.”

  “Outstanding? Athletic?”

  “I’ll supply the words, Drover. You just listen.”

  “Well, you asked.”

  “I’m sorry I asked. It has come to my attention that you often engage in behavior that is meaning­less, ridiculous, and unreasonable. Behavior which an outside observer might very well consider . . . stupid, to put it bluntly.”

  “I’ll be derned.” He sat up and began scratching his ear. “Are you sure it was me? That doesn’t sound like anything I’d do.”

  “Of course I’m sure it was you, and it sounds exactly like something you would do. Shall we get down to specifics?” I began pacing back and forth in fr
ont of him. I often do this when . . . maybe I’ve mentioned that before. “Okay, I saw you snapping at that cottonwood cotton.”

  “Yep, that was me all right.”

  “I know it was you. That’s my point. Do you realize how absurd you look when you do such things?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, you looked ridiculous and absurd. I mean, we are professional dogs, Drover. We hold important positions on this ranch.”

  “I didn’t know I had a position.”

  “You don’t, and one of the reasons you don’t is that you’re always doing something silly. If we gave you a position and a title, you’d embarrass the whole Security Division. Don’t you understand that everything we do on this ranch must have a purpose?”

  “I never thought about it . . . I guess.”

  “Well, it’s time you thought about it.” I stopped pacing and whirled around to face him. “What was your purpose in chasing those puffs of cotton?”

  “Well, let me think. It was fun.”

  “Won’t work, Drover. Having fun has nothing to do with our jobs. Having fun is for cats, chickens, ordinary mutts, and the other nitwits in this world. Try again.”

  “Well, let’s see.” He squinted one eye and drew his mouth up into a knot. He seemed to be concentrating. That was good. “I didn’t want the cotton to litter the ranch . . . I guess.”

  “Litter the ranch?”

  “Yeah. We’re against litter, aren’t we?”

  I resumed my pacing. “Of course we’re against litter, but cottonwood trees are part of this ranch, and their seeds are part of the natural flauna and fluoride. That’s not litter.”

  “Darn. Well, let me try again. I was hungry and wanted some cottonwood candy.”

  I stopped pacing and stared at the runt. “Cotton­wood candy? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Well, it’s like cotton candy, only it comes from cottonwood trees.”

  “No kidding?” I sat down. “Tell me more. This is something new.”

  “Well, let’s see. Cottonwood candy comes from cottonwood trees . . . ”

  “You’ve already said that. Get on with it.”

  “. . . and the best part is that you don’t have to go to the circus to buy it.”

  “Hmm, yes, that fits. There are no circuses on this ranch.” I began pacing again. This was starting to sound interesting. “Okay, Drover, we’ve got a lead here. We know for a fact that no circus has ever spent time on this ranch, yet you’ve reported finding traces of cottonwood candy. What made you think that the substance in the air was cottonwood candy rather than plain, ordinary cottonwood cotton?”

  “’Cause I saw one in the air, and I chased it.”

  “Exactly, but what about the taste?”

  “Well, it kind of rhymes with ‘chase.’”

  “Good point, and we may come back to that later. You see, Drover, candy, by its very nature, tastes sweet, and regular cotton candy is made up of equal parts of sugar and cotton. Therefore, it has a sweet taste. What about the stuff you snapped out of the air?”

  “Well . . . it sure tasted like equal parts to me.”

  I whirled around with an air of triumph. “There we are! Do you understand what this means, Drover? We have made an amazing discovery. Those cottonwood trees down along the creek are producing cottonwood candy! They might have been doing this for centuries, but nobody ever knew it because nobody was ever bold or curious enough to taste one of the tiny fluffs of cotton until WE came along and did it.”

  Who’s we?”

  “We, Drover, the scientific division of the Secur­ity Division. We who dare to look foolish in the pursuit of our research.”

  “Yeah, but it was me that did it.”

  “Exactly. You played a small but tiny part in making this discovery, and you’ll probably get some credit for it. But the important thing is that we have discovered an important new source of food and nourishment and . . .”

  At that very moment, my eyes caught sight of a small, white object floating through the air. It was a piece of cottonwood candy, and it was coming toward us.

  “Okay, Drover, stand by. I’m going to demonstrate the proper technique for harvesting cotton­wood candy. Watch this and take careful notes.”

  “I thought I already knew how.”

  “Your methods were crude, Drover. Not bad for a first attempt but a far cry from refined techniques. Watch.”

  I bent my knees and went into Stealthy Crouch Mode and waited until the candy puff was directly overhead. Then I hit the Launch Button, sprang upward, and snagged the luscious candy morsel in my jaws. I returned to earth and began smacking my lips on the . . .

  SPUT! PATOOEY!

  “Drover, you moron, that isn’t sweet. It’s nothing but a piece of fuzz.”

  “Well, I never said it was sweet. I said it tasted like equal parts, and you said . . .”

  I didn’t hear the rest of what he had to say, for at that very moment I became aware of a new and alarming sound behind me. I wheeled around and saw . . .

  Chapter Two: Mocked by the Small Minds on the Ranch

  I saw Loper and Slim. They had come down from the house and were leaning on the legs of the gas tank. And the alarming sound I had heard was their laughter.

  They appeared to be laughing at . . . something. I ran my gaze around in a full circle and saw nothing that might cause them such a fit of laughing. Then I heard them speak.

  Slim: “Say, that’s a pretty special dog you’ve got there. You reckon he’s a registered hunter and jumper?”

  Loper: “You bet. He hunts down cottonwood seeds and jumps to catch ’em. Sure makes me proud of my dog food bill.”

  Slim: “Why, yes. You know, Loper, them cotton farmers down around Lubbock might pay big money for a dog like Hank. If you staked him out for twenty-four hours, I’ll bet he might gather a whole bale of cotton.”

  Loper: “He sure might. Maybe I ought to get a patent on him.”

  Slim: “Boy, I would. Paint him green and put a John Deere sticker on him, and you might be able to rent him out by the month.”

  You can always spot the small minds in a crowd. They’re the ones that laugh and hoot and ridicule anyone who’s different, anyone who dares to exper­iment and push the outer limits of our scientific knowledge. And if history had been left to such hooters and scoffers, we’d still be . . . I don’t know where we’d still be.

  Yes I do. We’d still be living in a primitive state, without baling wire and zippers for blue jeans and better mousetraps. We’d have mice all over the place, eating up the world’s supply of cheese, and those two jugheads would still be making jokes.

  They think they’re so funny. Well, they’re not. If they didn’t laugh at their own stale jokes, there would be a great silence every time they told one.

  I held my head at a proud angle and gave them Poisonous Glares, just to let them know that all the great discoveries in science looked silly at first. My Poisonous Glares must have gotten to them—either that or they got so bored listening to each other, they couldn’t stand it anymore—but whatever, at last they ran out of excuses for loitering and loafing.

  Loper yawned and stretched. “Slim, why don’t you load up some alfalfa on the flatbed and feed those momma cows in the Dutcher Creek pasture. They’re chasing that early grass in the low spots, but they probably need a little extra protein. Feed the horse pasture and those yearlings in the southeast. Forty bales ought to be plenty.”

  Slim nodded. “Do I dare take the Cotton King with me?”

  “Oh, I guess we can spare him, but be real care­ful. With this cattle market in the pits, we may need to branch out into the cotton business.”

  “I’ll guard him with my life.”

  See? What did I tell you? They never quit. Well, if Slim thought I was going to help him feed h
ay, he was very muchly mistaken. I had better things to do—plenty of better things.

  “Hank, come on! Load up.”

  No. I would not come on, and I would not load up.

  Loper went down to the corrals or somewhere. I don’t know where he went, nor did I care. Slim came walking toward me. I turned my eyes away and refused to look at him.

  “Now Hankie, we were just funnin’. Don’t be bitter.”

  Hey, I was bitter. Who wouldn’t have been bitter? I had nothing more to say to Slim Chance, except that he wasn’t nearly as funny as he thought. No, I would not come, and I intended to ignore him for days, maybe even weeks.

  Dogs have feelings too. We can’t be mocked and scorned day after day.

  “Come on, Hankie. Let’s go load some hay.”

  No. He could load his own hay, and he could do it alone, and after he’d spent a few weeks alone, without a loyal friend, maybe he’d learn to appreciate a good honest cowdog.

  The Cotton King! I’d never been so insulted. If they had bothered to study the case, they would have known that the real so-called Cotton King on our outfit was Mister Squeakbox, who had invented the whole silly exercise.

  I’d just been trying to help the little goof.

  I should have known better. Helping Drover was Mission Impossible.

  And no, I would not help Slim feed today, and maybe never again. My decision was final.

  Slim shrugged and made his way to the flat­­­bed pickup in that slow walk of his. My glare followed him. It was a pity to end such a long friendship, but it couldn’t be helped. He opened the door and reached inside. He came out with something in his hand. He took a bite of it and held it up.

  “You want some beef jerky?”

  My ears shot up and puddles of water began to form in my mouth. Well, I . . . I sure didn’t want him thinking that all my anger and hurt and pain could be bought for one measly strip of beef jerky, but on the other hand . . . I, uh, found my steps taking me toward the pickup.