The Quest fort the Great White Quail Read online

  The Quest for the Great White Quail

  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 Viking Children’s Books and Puffin Books, members of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2008.

  Currently published by Maverick Books, Inc., 2012

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © John R. Erickson, 2008

  All rights reserved

  Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-152-0

  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

  For George Clay IV, in appreciation for all the elk meat he didn’t share with me last fall

  Contents

  Chapter One Drover Steals a Truck

  Chapter Two The Texas Bone Famine

  Chapter Three The Dreaded She Appears

  Chapter Four We Search for the Missing Twuck

  Chapter Five The Milk Jug Episode

  Chapter Six Miss Beulah Pays Me a Call

  Chapter Seven Drover Is Injured in the Line of Duty

  Chapter Eight A Mysterious Voice in the Fog

  Chapter Nine I Find the Birdly Wonder

  Chapter Ten Cannibals in the Cave!

  Chapter Eleven We Release the Anti-Cannibal Toxin

  Chapter Twelve The Pledge of No Plastic

  Chapter One: Drover Steals a Truck

  It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. Some dogs get into trouble for compulsive behavior, did you know that?

  The most common example comes from your bird-dog breeds. Bird dogs are famous for being . . . strange, let us say. One day they’re living the good life with everything a dog could want, and the next day . . . poof, they’re gone, off chasing a bird or who-knows-what. They’re experts at getting lost and total dunces at finding their way back home, and that’s only one of a hundred reasons why I’ve never had any use for bird dogs, especially Plato. More on him later.

  But even some of your non-bird-dog breeds get involved in compulsive behavior—chewing, for example. They see an object lying on the ground and some little voice in their mind says, “I’ve got to chew it!” If the object being chewed happens to be a stick or a bone, it seldom causes major problems, because . . . well, who cares about a stick or a bone? Nobody.

  But these compulsions have a way of getting out of hand. Remember the wise old saying? Hmmm. I thought I remembered it, but all of a sudden . . . okay, let’s skip the wise old saying. We don’t need it anyway.

  The point is that compulsive chewing is a bad habit that scores no points with our human friends. Our people don’t like it when their worldly possessions get mauled by the family dog.

  I knew that. What I didn’t know, what I never would have dreamed, was that Drover had a chewing problem. It came to my attention on the morning of . . . I don’t remember the day or the month, but it was some time in the warm months of the year.

  I had been up most of the night, checking out a few Monster Reports and talking trash with the local coyotes. It’s a little game we play. They come up to the edge of ranch headquarters and howl such things as, “Okay, man, we’re going to raid your chicken house and steal all your chickens, and then we’re gonna beat you up so bad, your own mother won’t know your face!”

  And I bark back a witty reply, such as, “Oh yeah? The last bum who tried that spent six weeks in Intensive Care. You want a piece of that, huh? You want a trip to the emergency room? Well, bring it on!”

  That’s pretty impressive, isn’t it? You bet. Those guys don’t get away with much on my outfit. The good news is that coyotes very seldom venture into ranch headquarters, so a dog is pretty safe mouthing off to them. Heh heh. It’s fun, one of the little pleasures that make this job worthwhile.

  Where were we? Oh yes, Drover. I had been up most of the night, patrolling ranch headquarters and whipping the daylights out of coyotes, and around eight o’clock in the morning I returned to my office in the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex. Strolling into the office, I saw that my desk was piled high with reports, top secret files, satellite photos, and the latest briefing papers on enemy agents operating in my territory.

  I was sifting through the stack of material, when I happened to glance to my right and saw Drover. He was sitting on his gunnysack bed, chewing something and making unpleasant noises with his mouth and teeth. I looked closer and saw that he was chewing a plastic truck.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Fine, thanks, how about yourself?”

  “You’re chewing a truck, did you know that?”

  He gave me a silly grin. “Oh yeah, but it’s not a real truck.”

  “I know it’s not a real truck.”

  “It’s just a toy.”

  “I’m aware that it’s just a toy. I’m also aware that it belongs to Little Alfred. In other words, you’re chewing up one of his toys.”

  “No, I found it outside the yard. Alfred keeps his toys inside the yard, so it can’t be his.”

  I marched over to him and gave him a stern glare. “Drover, have you lost your mind? Any toy truck you find on this ranch belongs to Little Alfred. Do you know why?”

  He rolled his eyes around. “Well, let me think . . .”

  “First, Slim and Loper drive real trucks and don’t need cheap plastic imitations. Second, Sally May doesn’t play with toys. And third, Baby Molly is a girl and doesn’t care about trucks. Who or whom does that leave?”

  “Well, let me think.” He furrowed his brow. “Pete?”

  I let out a groan. “Drover, Pete is a cat.”

  “Yeah, but he plays with things.”

  “He plays with his tail. Cats aren’t smart enough to play with toys. Who’s left?”

  His head began to drift downward and his silly grin faded. “Well . . . gosh, I never would have chewed up a toy that belonged to Little Alfred.”

  “Yes, but that’s exactly what you did. Look at your work.”

  He stared down at the truck, which had tooth tracks all over it. His lip began to quiver. “It looks pretty bad, now that you mention it.”

  “It looks awful, and I must tell you that I’m astonished by this burst of destructive behavior. We were hired to protect this ranch, Drover, not to chew it up.”

  A tear slid down his face. “Well, I couldn’t help myself. I saw it and I just . . . I just had to chew it!”

  I paced a few steps away and tried to plot my response. Getting mad, yelling, and fuming wouldn’t accomplish anything. It was obvious that the runt had a problem. He needed counseling and, well, who could handle that job better than me?

  I returned to his bedside. “Drover, you’ve become a slave to your darker side. It’s called Com­pulsive Chewing, and it’s a serious problem.”

  He
let out a wail. “Ohhh! I knew something was wrong! I’d never chewed up a truck in my whole life. What can I do?”

  “You can do exactly what I tell you. If you follow my instructions, I think we can break this pattern of silly, destructive behavior.”

  He stared at me with pleading eyes. “Gosh, no fooling? There’s hope?”

  “Yes, but only if you’re ready to seize control of your life and put this shabby episode behind you. Are you ready?” He gave his head a nod. “Good. Now listen carefully. First, you must repeat the Words of Healing.”

  “I don’t remember the words.”

  “I haven’t told you the words.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “The words are—and please pay attention—the Words of Healing are as follows: ‘Trucks are yucky, violets are blue/Anyone who’d chew one belongs in a zoo.’ ”

  He gave me an empty stare. “That’s all, just say the words?”

  “That’s correct, once before meals and twice at bedtime.”

  He frowned. “What if I forget the words?”

  “Then the deal is off. You’re on your own. It’s your life, Drover, and you can either take control of it or let it spin out of control. If we don’t get this thing stopped now, it’ll only get worse.”

  He swallowed hard. “Well, I guess I can try.”

  “That’s the spirit. Oh, and one more thing. For your own protection, I’ll have to confiscate the truck.” Suddenly, he grabbed up the truck in his mouth and turned away from me. “Drover, listen to me. You’re showing all the symptoms of a full-blown case of Compulsive Chewing. You have to give it up.”

  There was a moment of tense silence, then the truck fell from his mouth. “It was the best truck I ever chewed.”

  “I know, but it’s turned you into a maniac. Step aside.” He moved out of the way. “You’ll be glad, believe me.”

  “What’ll you do with it?”

  “I’ll return it to the yard. If we’re lucky, no one will ever suspect that you damaged the toy of an innocent child.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t put it that way.”

  “But it’s true, Drover. You see, that’s what makes this disease so tragic. It causes dogs to steal from their best friends.”

  “Should I go with you?”

  “Absolutely not. It might cause you to slide into a deadly relapse.”

  He stared at the ground and nodded his head. “I guess you’re right. Better not take the chance.”

  I laid a paw on his shoulder. “Son, in a month or two, this will all be behind us and we can laugh about it. But today, I’ve got to get this thing out of here.”

  I snatched up the toy in my enormous jaws and hurried out of the office. The sooner I got rid of that thing, the better we would all be.

  Chapter Two: The Texas Bone Famine

  I trotted past the garden, past Emerald Pond, up the hill north of the gas tanks, and to the front of the machine shed. There, I paused to reconoodle the situation down at the yard.

  I didn’t mind returning Drover’s stolen property, but I sure didn’t want to be observed by our people in the house. See, I had every reason to suppose that if they saw me with Alfred’s truck in my mouth, they would assume that I was the one with the deadly Chewing Disorder. Even worse, they might accuse ME of being the thief.

  It sounds crazy, doesn’t it, the Head of Ranch Security being accused of chewing up toys, but let me remind you that such mistakes have happened before. Just when you think you’ve won their trust, they’ll catch you in an awkward moment and start piling on the charges.

  Sally May was the worst offender. I mean, there seemed to be no end to her suspicions. Did I need to add fuel to the fires of her suspicion? No sir, and that’s why I did a Visual Sweep of the entire area: the west side of the house, the back-yard, the porch, the flower beds, all the places where Sally May had been known to lurk.

  I hate to put it that way—lurk—but after a dog’s been nailed eight or ten times, after Sally May has suddenly appeared out of nowhere and caught him in an embarrassing situation, he gets a little punchy.

  See, one of the valuable lessons I had learned about Sally May was that she often works at the kitchen sink. While peeling potatoes or washing dishes, she looks out the window and does surveillance of the backyard area. Just when you think the coast is clear and nobody is watching, she’ll catch you in some little mistake. Then her voice will pierce the silence, causing every hair on your body to stand on end, and things start sliding downhill in a hurry. We sure didn’t need any of that.

  And, you know, the longer I thought about this deal, the less interested I was in getting blamed for Drover’s crimes. What was in it for me? Nothing. But what would I do with the stolen property?

  I submitted the problem to Heavy-Duty Analysis and arrived at a sensible solution. Instead of returning the truck to the yard, I would simply haul it off to a quiet spot and dump it. Somebody would find it eventually, and my name would never appear on anybody’s list of suspects.

  Great idea, and I was a little surprised that I hadn’t thought of it sooner. I turned away from the house and trotted around to the north side of the machine shed. Once there, out of the view of prying eyes, I dropped the thing on the ground and heaved a big sigh of relief. At last, we were rid of it! Now I could get back to the business of . . .

  I glanced around in a full circle. I didn’t think that Drover had followed me, but you never know. His compulsion was very compulsive. I saw nothing and nobody, so I . . . uh . . . began staring at the toy truck. Why? Well, it’s hard to explain to someone who’s never been a dog, who’s never experienced the . . .

  How can I say this? Normal dogs sometimes find themselves attracted to certain substances, don’t you see, and notice that I said normal dogs. We’re not talking about your perfect little do-right poodles and yip-yips that stay inside a house, wear perfume and ribbons, and never have a wayward thought.

  We’re talking about real dogs, normal, healthy, red-blooded American dogs that go to work every day, eat Co-op dog food out of a hubcap, and keep the country running. See, when a guy works eighteen hours a day, every once in a while he yearns for some entertainment. We’re not talking about anything lavish or expensive, just simple pleasures that satisfy a tiny need, such as . . .

  I found myself staring at the toy truck. It was a pretty shade of red and made of soft plastic, not the kind that breaks into splinters and hurts your teeth and gums. I could almost understand why Drover had been attracted to it. I mean, chewing soft plastic isn’t the same as chewing a bone, but in times of bone shortages . . .

  Did I mention that we were in the midst of a terrible Bone Famine? Maybe not, but we were. It was one of the longest, most brutal Bone Famines in recent memory. The supply of bones had just dried up, and dogs all over Texas had been forced to chew . . . well, other things. You know, sticks, rocks, newspapers, old shoes, and other things they wouldn’t ordinarily chew.

  I, uh, tossed glances over both shoulders and my eyes returned to the truck. I hadn’t chewed a good bone in weeks . . . months . . . years, and all at once . . .

  Okay, we need to talk. We’re friends, right? We can talk about things that aren’t necessarily pleasant, things we’re not proud of? I’m just going to blurt it out.

  I started chewing the truck, and I LOVED IT!

  I had never dreamed that chewing plastic could be such an exciting experience, but it was, and all at once Drover didn’t seem nearly as crazy as I’d thought.

  I chewed it to smithereens and wanted more . . . more plastic! Yes, plastic. Who needs bones in a world full of nice chewy plastic? Bones can wear down your teeth and cause bone particles to collect in your estomagus, but plastic . . . it doesn’t splinterize and poke your gums. Further­more, since you don’t swallow it, all the various pieces remain outside the bodily so-forth.

  See, plasti
c was invented for DOGS. Maybe you didn’t know that. Maybe I didn’t know it either, but after conducting this first experiment with a plastic substance, it became very clear to me that someone out there had invented plastic so that dogs could chew it.

  Why not? For thousands of years, dogs have been man’s best friend. We’ve liked our people when they were unlikable, loved them when they were unlovable, forgiven them when they were unforgivable. We’ve licked their ears when we really wanted ice cream, kept them warm on cold winter nights, laughed at their stale jokes, and listened to their corny songs about Old Paint and Dunny.

  Don’t we deserve something special? Yes, of course we do, and that special something is PLASTIC.

  Okay, there’s one little problem with plastic. Once chewed and re-chewed, it leaves a mess, but what’s a little mess in the broader context of history? This world is a big place. Put the world on one side and a small deposit of shredded plastic on the other, and you can see right away that shredded plastic is no big deal. It’s the kind of thing our people ought to ignore, right?

  I’m glad you understand, because . . . well, once I had chewed up the truck, I found myself . . . uh . . . wishing to find other objects made of plastic, shall we say.

  I headed toward the house. As I was passing the front of the machine shed, I happened to notice the head of a small whitish dog peering out the crack between the two sliding doors. When I appeared on the scenery, the head vanished inside.

  I stopped and stuck my head inside the door. “Drover? Come out. I know you’re in there.”

  A moment later, he stepped out of the barn, and right away I picked up an important clue. He had twisted his body into the shape of a horseshoe and was flashing a goony smile. Maybe you’ve never seen such odd behavior in a dog, but I have. Drover does it fairly often, and it’s a sign that he’s feeling guilty about something.

  “Why are you doing that?”