The of the Booby-Trapped Pickup Read online

  The Case of the Booby-Trapped Pickup

  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, 2007.

  Currently published by Maverick Books, Inc., 2012

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © John R. Erickson, 2007

  All rights reserved

  Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-149-0

  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 Bert Bostic of Midland, Texas, and his spectacular Spirit Wind choirs.

  Contents

  Chapter One A Hairy Witch Invades the Ranch

  Chapter Two A Terrible Explosion

  Chapter Three Drover Wasn’t Blown Up

  Chapter Four We Meet a Mouthy Little Yip-Yip

  Chapter Five The Donut Fiasco

  Chapter Six I Lost My Pal in a Pile of Dough

  Chapter Seven We Ride in the Fancy New Pickup

  Chapter Eight Trapped Alive!

  Chapter Nine Drover Gets a Promotion

  Chapter Ten My Head Gets Cut Off

  Chapter Eleven Missy Coyote Falls Madly in Love with Me

  Chapter Twelve This Ending Will Knock Your Socks Off

  Chapter One: A Hairy Witch Invades the Ranch

  It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. A coyote that came into the feed ground and ate with the cows? Ridiculous. Impossible. I didn’t believe one word of Slim’s story until . . . well, until I saw that coyote with my own eyes and she turned out to be a gorgeous princess who fell madly in love with me.

  But that comes later in the story. Forget I mentioned it.

  Where were we? Oh yes, the mystery began in the wintertime, as I recall, the first part of winter, maybe late November, because I had recently switched the ranch over to our Winter Routine.

  Have we discussed the WR? Maybe not. The Winter Routine is the routine we follow in the winter, and that’s why we call it . . . maybe this is obvious, but it’s not so obvious what we do in the Winter Routine. Are you ready to hear this? Pay attention.

  First thing, we send all the summer birds packing, your sparrows, larks, cardinals, robins, tweeties, and so-forth birds. Sometime in September or October, we give ’em the order to move out and fly south. Why? Because after putting up with them all summer, I’m ready to clean house and get ’em off the ranch.

  I mean, you talk about noisy! Around here, a dog can hardly sleep in the summertime for all the noise. They tweet, twitter, squeak, squawk, chirp, and chatter from sunup to sundown, and some of ’em don’t quit at sundown. They tweet and twitter half the night. Annoying? You bet.

  Another thing that annoys me is that they nest in ranch trees without permission. If they showed some respect and asked my permission, I’d probably give it. I mean, birds have to do something. They don’t have honest jobs, so they need a place to loiter and do their little nothings. But they don’t ask permission. They just move in, take over ranch trees, and start making noise. That really burns me up.

  On your average summer day, I have to spend an hour and fifteen minutes barking at the little dummies and trying to restore law and order. The Head of Ranch Security shouldn’t have to get involved with such silliness, but if I didn’t do it, who would? Barking at birds would make a nice little summer job for Drover, but he can’t be trusted. His mind wanders, you know.

  But the point is that by the middle of September, I’m sick of birds and I give ’em the order to shove off. You know what? It works every time. Those birds pack up their feathers and head south in droves, and we don’t see ’em again until the following spring. Pretty impressive, huh? You bet. Those birds don’t want to mess with the Head of Ranch Security.

  The other part of the Winter Routine comes when I issue a directive to ranch employees: “Attention please! The Security Division has been monitoring the nutritional needs of our cattle, and as of yesterday afternoon, the protein level of our pasture grass dropped below the minimum. Therefore, tomorrow morning all cowboys will initiate our Winter Feeding Program and will continue feeding until I issue another directive next spring. Any employees who don’t understand this directive, or who don’t agree with it, are invited to follow orders and keep their traps shut.”

  Are you surprised that a dog would be so deeply involved in the ranch’s Winter Feeding Program? Most of your ordinary ranch mutts don’t, but me . . . well, as I always say, no task is too small to be little.

  No task is too small to be big.

  No task is too big to belittle.

  No task is too . . . there’s a neat old saying that captures what I’m trying to say here, but at the moment . . . just skip it.

  Where were we? Oh yes, winter had come to the ranch and I had put our Winter Routine into action, which meant that we were . . . well, ready for winter. We had swept out another crop of pesky little tweet-tweets and I had ordered the cowboy crew back to work, feeding cattle every day. I knew they hated that, I mean, they had spent most of the summer tacking up fence and tearing up equipment in the alfalfa patch, goofing off and playing so-called practical jokes on us dogs, and now they had to load up sacks of feed every morning and actually do some work on the ranch.

  I heard them grumbling and complaining, but it didn’t soften my heart one bit. By George, I had sent down my orders and that was the end of it.

  Well, almost. On the morning of November 28, the very first day of winter feeding, a problem developed, a problem so serious that even I hadn’t antipisated it. At 8:07 that morning . . . anticipated . . . at 9:07 that morning, Slim’s old pickup quit working. It died right in front of the machine shed, and we’re talking about graveyard dead.

  Fortunately, I was on duty and ready to swing into action. Whilst Slim raised the hood and went through his usual checklist (scratching his head, scowling at the motor, wiggling two wires, and calling the pickup a piece of junk), I reached for the microphone of my mind and put out a call to the Elite Troops of the Security Division.

  “Hank to Drover, over. Report to the machine shed at once. We’ve got a mechanical failure up here, and Slim’s in over his head, over. Do you copy?”

  I waited and listened. Not a sound, except for static on the radio. Where was he? Every time I really needed the little goof, he was . . . but then I heard the shuffle of his feet on the gravel, and he came dragging around the northeast corner of the machine shed. Was he running or showing any indication that this was an urgent matter? No. He was taking his sweet time, wearing a silly grin and gazing around at the scenery.

  He walked into the icy beam of my hot glare and stopped. “Oh, hi. Were you barking for me?”

  “I called you, yes. You may have thought I was merely barking, but i
t was actually a downlink microwave transmission from one of the Security Division’s communication satellites.”

  “I’ll be derned. It sure sounded like a bark to me.”

  “It was more than a bark, but never mind. Did you get my urgent message?”

  “Well, let me think here.” He rolled his eyes around. “I think you said that Slim was . . . standing on his head?”

  The air hissed out of my lungs. “That wasn’t the message. I said that Slim was in over his head. His pickup quit on him and he needs backup right away.”

  “His pickup won’t back up?”

  “Affirmative. It won’t back up and it won’t go forward either. It’s broken and he needs a backup from us.”

  “You mean . . . we have to pull it backward?”

  I stuck my nose in his face. “Drover, listen to me. The pickup won’t start and Slim is a lousy mechanic. He needs our help. Do you understand?”

  “Well . . . I’m not sure. How come he’s standing on his head?”

  “He’s not standing on his head! Look at him. Is he standing on his head?”

  You won’t believe this part. Just as Drover swung his gaze around, Slim bent down and looked underneath the pickup, so that his head almost touched the ground. Drover flashed a grin. “Oh, I see now. He’s standing on his head, trying to figure out how come the pickup won’t back up, only he’s not really standing on his head. Did I get it right?”

  What can you say? “Yes. Fine. Very good. Now, let’s march over there and see if we can lend a hand.”

  “What if we don’t have any hands?”

  I froze. “What?”

  “If all you’ve got is paws, how can you lend a hand?”

  “Drover, are you trying to be funny?”

  “I don’t think so. All I’ve got is four paws, honest. See?” He proceeded to show me his paws.

  “Then don’t lend a hand. Lend a paw. Let’s go. We’re wasting valuable time here.” I shoved my way past him and started toward Slim.

  “Which paw?”

  Again, I had to stop. “What did you say?”

  “When?”

  “Just now.”

  He rolled his eyes around. “Well, let me think. I said that Slim was standing on his head.”

  “No, after that.”

  “Well, I said . . . I already forgot.”

  I could feel my temper rising. “You said . . . you said something about a witch.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, you certainly did, and don’t try to deny it. Now, why were you inquiring about witches?”

  His eyes blanked out. “I don’t know, but Halloween’s already past.”

  “That’s correct. Are you saying that we still have a Halloween witch running around on the ranch?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Because, if you are”—I began pacing in front of him—“this could lead our investigation into an entirely new direction.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Where did you see this witch? Around headquarters?”

  “No, all I said was, which paw?”

  I froze in my tracks. “Witch paw? She had paws? Holy smokes, Drover, why didn’t you report this sooner?”

  “No, I said . . .”

  “A witch with paws! This could turn out to be very interesting.” I resumed my pacing. “Okay, let’s follow up on this. Describe the paws.”

  He held up a foot and squinted at it. “Well, let’s see. Four toes and dirty nails, and hair between the toes.”

  “Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere. This was a hairy witch, the most dangerous kind. Was she riding a broom? Carrying a pumpkin? Did she have a black cat?” I noticed that the runt had collapsed to the ground and covered his ears with his paws. I marched over to him. “Now what? I’m trying to work up this case, Drover, but I must have your cooperation. Was she riding a broom?”

  “Who?”

  “The witch, of course.”

  He let out a moan. “I didn’t see a witch! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “You . . . you didn’t see a hairy witch with paws?”

  “No!”

  There was a long moment of silence. “Drover, if you didn’t see a witch, then what is the point of this conversation?”

  “I don’t know. I’m so confused, I want to go back to bed.”

  “I see.” I took a slow breath of air. “In that case . . . Drover, what were we doing before you dragged us into a ridiculous conversation about witches?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Hmmm. Neither do I.” I sat down and began scratching my right ear. A moment later, I heard Slim scream, “Piece of junk!” And it all came rushing back. I leaped to my feet and called Drover to action, and we sprinted over to help Slim in his hour of greatest need.

  Chapter Two: A Terrible Explosion

  Did you understand any of that business about the witch? I never figured it out, but when you work around Drover, you have to expect a certain amount of chaos and nonsense. But the important thing is that we were able to rush two loyal dogs to the scene of Slim’s latest crisis.

  We got there just in time. Slim’s face had turned red. There was fire in his eyes and his lips were pulled back in a snarl of rage. He held a ball-peen hammer in his right hand and, well, I got the impression that he was ready to throw it through the windshield.

  “Okay, Drover, let’s set the formation. It’s obvious that Slim needs our help.”

  “Gosh, what’ll we do?”

  “What do you think? We bark, of course, but not ordinary barks. For this deal, we’d better go to Motor Tune-up Barks. Ready? Let ’er rip!”

  Boy, you should have been there. It was really something to see and hear—two brave dogs pouring heart and soul into a chorus of barking against rust, corrosion, sludge, and your other evil agents that cause pickups to quit running. I don’t know as we’d ever done a better job with the Motor Tune-up Program, and I think it would have worked if only . . .

  I guess Slim didn’t understand what we were doing. (How many times has that happened? Thousands of times.) Maybe he thought we were just barking, just a couple of dumb mutts yapping at nothing in particular. In other words, he missed the whole point of the Motor Tune-up Barking Procedure. Just about the time we had really gotten into a rhythm and were pumping out some outstanding barks, he whirled around and screeched, “Knock off the dadgum noise, will you?”

  HUH? Knock off the . . .

  Okay. Fine. Sure. If that’s the way he felt about it, you bet, we could sit there like knots on a log and let his dumb old pickup rot into the ground. I mean, I had plenty of things to do and didn’t need to take his insults. If he thought he could fix his rattletrap piece-of-junk pickup without help from his dogs, by George, that was fine with me.

  I turned to my assistant. “Okay, Drover, let’s shut ’er down. Our help isn’t wanted here.”

  “Oh, darn. I was just getting into the good part.”

  “I know, but we can’t help him if he doesn’t want to be helped. We’ll just have to let him learn the hard way. Mark my words, son, they’ll have to tow that pickup all the way into town and leave it with a mechanic.”

  “Gosh, that’s too bad. You reckon we could have fixed it?”

  “Oh, sure, no question about it. Two more minutes of barking would have done the trick. But don’t be discouraged. We did all two dogs could have done. Let’s get out of here.”

  I gave Slim one last wounded glance and started to leave, but just then Loper came walking up from the house. I figured we might as well stick around and witness the next chapter in the drama.

  Loper walked up to the front of the pickup and looked under the hood. “Problem?”

  Slim nodded and gestured with the hammer. “Yalp, but if you’ll leave for about five minutes
and cover your ears, I think I can fix it.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “Won’t start.”

  “It’s probably flooded. I smell gasoline.”

  “It’s a piece of junk.”

  Loper gave his head a shake. “Slim, some of us have the talent to fix machinery and some don’t. You couldn’t fix a yo-yo if the string broke.”

  “Yeah? Then start it yourself.”

  “I will. The secret is, don’t pump the foot-feed.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “That floods the motor.” Loper opened the pickup door and sat behind the wheel. “Watch and study your lessons, Slimbo.” Loper turned the key and cranked the motor. He cranked it for two minutes and nothing happened.

  A lopsided smirk spread across Slim’s mouth. “Don’t quit now. You’ve still got some battery left.”

  Loper showed him the palm of his hand. “Patience. That was just Step One. Did you open up the carburetor?”

  Slim hitched up his jeans. “No, I didn’t, and do you know why?”

  “Because you’re too lazy.”

  “No sir. The reason is that the last time me and you tried that, we had a little explosion.”

  Loper shrugged. “That was a freak. I’ll have a look.”

  “Okay, buddy, you’re paying the bills on this outfit.”

  Loper removed the air filter and looked into the carburetor. “Give ’er a crank.” Sitting behind the wheel, Slim hit the starter and the motor turned over several times. It didn’t start. Loper raised his hand in the air. “Hold it. I see the problem. It’s getting too much gas.”

  Slim heaved a sigh and looked up at the sky. “Loper, the pickup’s twenty years old and it wants to be traded off for a newer model. You can’t run a ranch with junkyard equipment.”

  “Sure you can. That’s how you stay in business in a bad cattle market.” Loper walked into the barn and came back with a handful of wrenches. He flashed a grin. “I’ll have it running in five minutes.”