The Original Adventures of Hank the Cowdog Read online

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

  p. cm.

  Originally published in series: Hank the Cowdog ; [1]

  Summary: Hank the Cowdog, Head of Ranch Security, is framed for the murder of a chicken and becomes an outlaw with the coyotes.

  ISBN 1-59188-101-3 (pbk. ; alk. paper)

  [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 ; 1.

  PZ7.E72556Or 1999 [Fic]—dc21 98-41813 CIP AC

  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

  In memory of my mother and father, Anna Beth and Joseph Erickson

  Contents

  Chapter One: Bloody Murder

  Chapter Two: Quills - Just Part of the Job

  Chapter Three: An Enormous Monster

  Chapter Four: The Boxer

  Chapter Five: Another Bloody Murder

  Chapter Six: Buzzards

  Chapter Seven: True Love

  Chapter Eight: Hank Runs a Bluff

  Chapter Nine: Me Just a Worthless Coyote

  Chapter Ten: Aged Mutton

  Chapter Eleven: The Attack on the Ranch

  Chapter Twelve: The Exciting Conclusion

  Chapter One: Bloody Murder

  It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. I just got some terrible news. There’s been a murder on the ranch.

  I know I shouldn’t blame myself. I mean, a dog is only a dog. He can’t be everywhere at once. When I took this job as Head of Ranch Security, I knew that I was only flesh and blood, four legs, a tail, a couple of ears, a pretty nice kind of nose that the women really go for, two bushels of hair and another half bushel of Mexican sandburs.

  You add that all up and you don’t get Super­man, just me, good old easygoing Hank who works hard, tries to do his job, and gets very little cooperation from anyone else around here.

  I’m not complaining. I knew this wouldn’t be an easy job. It took a special kind of dog—strong, fearless, dedicated, and above all, smart. Obviously Drover didn’t fit. The job fell on my shoulders. It was my destiny. I couldn’t escape the broom of history that swept through . . . anyway, I took the job.

  Head of Ranch Security. Gee, I was proud of that title. Just the sound of it made my tail wag. But now this, a murder, right under my nose. I know I shouldn’t blame myself, but I do.

  I got the report this morning around dawn. I had been up most of the night patrolling the northern perimeter of ranch headquarters. I had heard some coyotes yapping up there and I went up to check it out. I told Drover where I was going and he came up lame all of a sudden, said he needed to rest his right front leg.

  I went alone, didn’t find anything. The coyotes stayed out in the pasture. I figured there were two, maybe three of them. They yapped for a couple of hours, making fun of me, calling me ugly names, and daring me to come out and fight.

  Well, you know me. I’m no dummy. There’s a thin line between heroism and stupidity, and I try to stay on the south side of it. I didn’t go out and fight, but I answered them bark for bark, yap for yap, name for name.

  The coyote hasn’t been built who can out-yap Hank the Cowdog.

  A little before dawn, Loper, one of the cowboys on this outfit, stuck his head out the door and bellered, “Shut up that yapping, you idiot!” I guess he thought there was only one coyote out there.

  They kept it up and I gave it back to them. Next time Loper came to the door, he was armed. He fired a gun into the air and squalled, something about how a man couldn’t sleep around here with all the dad-danged noise. I agreed.

  Would you believe it? Them coyotes yipped louder than ever, and I had no choice but to give it back to them.

  Loper came back out on the porch and fired another shot. This one came so close to me that I heard the hum. Loper must have lost his bearings or something, so I barked louder than ever to give him my position, and, you know, to let him know that I was out there protecting the ranch.

  The next bullet just derned near got me. I mean, I felt the wind of it as it went past. That was enough for me. I shut her down for the night. If Loper couldn’t aim any better than that, he was liable to hurt somebody.

  I laid low for a while, hiding in the shelter belt, until I was sure the artillery had gone back to bed. Then I went down for a roll in the sewer, cleaned up, washed myself real good, came out feeling refreshed and ready to catch up on my sleep. Trotted down to the gas tanks and found Drover curled up in my favorite spot.

  I growled him off my gunnysack. “Beat it, son. Make way for the night patrol.”

  He didn’t want to move so I went to sterner measures, put some fangs on him. That moved him out, and he didn’t show no signs of lameness either. I have an idea that where Drover is lamest is between his ears.

  I did my usual bedtime ritual of walking in a tight circle around my bed until I found just exactly the spot I wanted, and then I flopped down. Oh, that felt good! I wiggled around and finally came to rest with all four paws sticking up in the air. I closed my eyes and had some wonderful twitching dreams about . . . don’t recall exactly the subject matter, but most likely they were about Beulah, the neighbor’s collie. I dream about her a lot.

  What a woman! Makes my old heart pound just to think about her. Beautiful brown and white hair, big eyes, nose that tapers down to a point (not quite as good as mine, but so what?), and nice ears that flap when she runs.

  Only trouble is that she’s crazy about a spotted bird dog, without a doubt the ugliest, dumbest, worthlessest cur I ever met. What could be uglier than a spotted short-haired dog with a long skinny tail? And what could be dumber or more worthless than a dog that goes around chasing birds?

  They call him Plato. I don’t know why, except maybe because his eyes look like plates half the time, empty plates. He don’t know a cow from a sow, but do you think that makes him humble? No sir. He thinks that bird-chasing is hot stuff. What really hurts, th
ough, is that Beulah seems to agree.

  Don’t understand that woman, but I dream about her a lot.

  Anyway, where was I? Under the gas tanks, catching up on my sleep. All at once Drover was right there beside me, jumping up and down and giving off that high-pitched squeal of his that kind of bores into your eardrums. You can’t ignore him when he does that.

  Well, I throwed open one eye, kept the other one shut so that I could get some halfway sleep. “Will you please shut up?”

  “Hank, oh Hankie, it’s just terrible, you wouldn’t believe, hurry and wake up, I seen his tracks down on the creek, get up before he escapes!”

  I throwed open the other eye, pushed myself up, and went nose-to-nose with the noisemaker. “Quit hopping around. Quit making all that racket. Hold still and state your business.”

  “Okay Hank, all right, I’ll try.” He tried and was none too successful, but he did get the message across. “Oh Hank, there’s been a killing, right here on the ranch, and we slept through it!”

  “Huh?” I was coming awake by then, and the word killing sent a jolt clean out to the end of my tail. “Who’s been killed?”

  “They hit the chickenhouse, Hank. I don’t know how they got in but they did, busted in there and killed one of those big leghorn hens, killed her dead, Hank, and oh, the blood!”

  Well, that settled it. I had no choice but to go back on duty. A lot of dogs would have just turned over and gone back to sleep, but I take this stuff pretty serious.

  We trotted up to the chickenhouse, and Drover kept jumping up and down and talking. “I found some tracks down by the creek. I’m sure they belong to the killer, Hank, I’m just sure they do.”

  “What kind of tracks?”

  “Coyote.”

  “Hmm.” We reached the chickenhouse and, sure enough, there was the hen lying on the ground, and she was still dead. I walked around the body, sniffing it good and checking the signs.

  I noticed the position of the body and memorized every detail. The hen was lying on her left side, pointing toward the northeast, with one foot out and the other one curled up under her wing. Her mouth was open and it appeared to me that she had lost some tail feathers.

  “Uh-huh, I’m beginning to see the pattern.”

  “What, tell me, Hank, who done it?”

  “Not yet. Where’d you see them tracks?” There weren’t any tracks around the corpse, ground was too hard. Drover took off in a run and I followed him down into the brush along the creek.

  He stopped and pointed to some fresh tracks in the mud. “There they are, Hank, just where I found them. Are you proud of me?”

  I pushed him aside and studied the sign, looked it over real careful, sniffed it, gave it the full treatment. Then I raised up.

  “Okay, I’ve got it now. It’s all clear. Them’s coon tracks, son, not coyote. I can tell from the scent. Coons must have attacked while I was out on patrol. They’re sneaky, you’ve got to watch ’em every minute.”

  Drover squinted at the tracks. “Are you sure those are coon tracks? They sure look like coyote to me.”

  “You don’t go by the look, son, you go by the smell. This nose of mine don’t lie. If it says coon, you better believe there’s a coon at the end of them tracks. And I’m fixing to clean house on him. Stay behind me and don’t get hurt.”

  I threaded my way through the creek willows, over the sand, through the water. I never lost the scent. In the heat of a chase, all my senses come alive and point like a blazing arrow toward the enemy.

  In a way I felt sorry for the coon, even though he’d committed a crime and become my mortal enemy. With me on his trail, the little guy just didn’t have a chance. One of the disadvantages of being as big and deadly as I am is that you sometimes find yourself in sympathy with the other guy.

  But part of being Head of Ranch Security is learning to ignore that kind of emotion. I mean, to hold down this job, you have to be cold and hard.

  The scent was getting stronger all the time, and it didn’t smell exactly like any coon I’d come across before. All at once I saw him. I stopped dead still and Drover, the little dummy, ran right into me and almost had a heart attack. I guess he thought I was a giant coon or something. It’s hard to say what he thinks.

  The coon was hiding in some bushes about five feet in front of me. I could hear him chewing on something, and that smell was real strong now.

  “What’s that?” Drover whispered, sniffing the air.

  “Coon, what do you think?” I glanced back at him. He was shaking with fear. “You ready for some combat experience?”

  “Yes,” he squeaked.

  “All right, here’s the plan. I’ll jump him and try to get him behind the neck. You come in the second wave and take what you can. If you run away like you did last time, I’ll sweep the corral with you and give you a whupping you won’t forget. All right, let’s move out.”

  I crouched down and crept forward, every muscle in my highly conditioned body taut and ready for action. Five feet, four feet, three feet, two. I sprang through the air and hit right in the middle of the biggest porcupine I ever saw.

  Chapter Two: Quills - Just Part of the Job

  It was kind of a short fight. Coming down, I seen them quills aimed up at me and tried to change course. Too late. I don’t move so good in midair.

  I lit right in the middle of him and bam, he slapped me across the nose with his tail, sure did hurt too, brought tears to my eyes. I hollered for Drover to launch the second wave but he had disappeared.

  Porcupine took another shot at me but I dodged, tore up half an acre of brush, and got the heck out of there. As I limped back up to the house on pin-cushion feet, my thoughts went back to the murder scene and the evidence I had committed to memory.

  It was clear now. The porcupine had had nothing at all to do with the murder because porcupines don’t eat anything but trees.

  Drover had found the first set of tracks he had come to and had started hollering about coyotes. I had been duped into believing the runt.

  Yes, it was all clear. I had no leads, no clues, no idea who had killed the hen. What I did have was a face-full of porcupine quills, as well as several in my paws.

  I limped up to the yard gate. As you might expect, Drover was nowhere to be seen. I sat down beside the gate and waited for Loper to come out and remove the quills.

  A lot of dogs would have set up a howl and a moan. Not me. I figgered that when a dog got to be Head of Ranch Security, he ought to be able to stand some pain. It just went with the territory.

  So I waited and waited and Loper didn’t come out. Them quills was beginning to hurt.

  The end of my nose throbbed, felt like a balloon. Made me awful restless, but I didn’t whine or howl.

  Pete the Barncat came along just then, had his tail stuck straight up in the air and was rubbing along the fence, coming my way. He had his usual dumb-cat expression and I could hear him purring.

  He came closer. I glared at him. “Scram, cat.”

  He stopped, arched his back, and rubbed up against the fence. “What’s that on your face?”

  “Nothing you need to know about.”

  He rubbed and purred, then reached up and sharpened his claws on a post. “You sure look funny with all those things sticking out of your nose.”

  “You’re gonna look funny if you don’t run along and mind your own business. I’m not in the mood to take any of your trash right now.”

  He grinned and kept coming, started rubbing up against my leg. I decided to ignore him, look the other way and pretend he wasn’t there. Sometimes that’s the best way to handle a cat, let him know that you won’t allow him to get you stirred up. You have to be firm with cats. Give ’em the slightest encouragement and he’ll try to move in and take over.

  Pete rubbed and purred. I ignored him, told myself he wasn’
t there. Then he brought that tail up and flicked it across the end of my nose. I curled my lip and growled. He looked up at me and did it again.

  It tickled my nose, made my eyes water. I had to sneeze. I tried to fight it back but couldn’t hold it. I gave a big sneeze and them quills sent fire shooting through my nose, kind of inflamed me, don’t you see, and all at once I lost my temper.

  I made a snap at him but he was gone, over the fence and into Sally May’s yard, which is sort of off limits to us dogs even though Pete can come and go as he pleases, which ain’t fair.

  With the fence between us, Pete knew he was safe. He throwed a hump into his back and hissed, and what was I supposed to do then? Sing him a lullaby? Talk about the weather? No sir, I barked. I barked hard and loud, just to let that cat know that he couldn’t get me stirred up.

  The door opened and Loper stepped out on the porch. He was wearing jeans and an undershirt, no hat and no boots, and he had a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “Hank! Leave the cat alone!”

  I stopped and stared at him. Leave the cat alone! Pete grinned and walked off, purring and switching the tip of his tail back and forth.

  I could have killed him.

  I whined and wagged my tail and went over to the gate where Loper could see my nose. He looked up at the sky, took a drink of coffee, swatted a mosquito on his arm, looked up at the clouds again. I whined louder and jumped on the gate so that he couldn’t miss seeing that old Hank, his loyal friend and protector of the ranch, had been wounded in the line of duty.

  “Don’t jump on the gate.” He yawned and went back into the house.

  Twenty minutes later he came out again, dressed for the day’s work. I had waited pa­tiently. My nose was really pounding by this time, but I didn’t complain. When he came out the gate, I jumped up to greet him.

  Know what he said? “Hank, you stink! Have you been in the sewer again?” And he walked on down to the corral, didn’t see the quills in my nose.