The Case of the Mysterious Voice Read online

  “Where are we going, Hankie?”

  “Oh, we thought it might be fun to do some exploring.”

  “Hmmm. And what are we going to explore?”

  “You never know, Pete. Maybe we’ll climb the haystack or catch turtles.”

  His cunning little eyes moved from side to side. “Hmm. Those aren’t things that cats do, Hankie, and I’m wondering why I was invited.”

  “Well, I guess Little Alfred got to feeling sorry for you. Let’s face it, Pete. You have no personality and no friends. You need help with your social life.”

  “Oh really.”

  “Yes, it’s a common trait in cats. Oh, and we’ve noticed that you live an unhealthy lifestyle. You never do anything, Pete, and to be perfectly honest, you’re getting a little overweight. I hate to be the one to tell you, but it’s true. You need some exercise.”

  Alfred opened a wooden gate and we entered the corrals. Pete had begun twitching the last inch of his tail, a sure sign that his scheming little mind had kicked into high gear.

  “You know, Hankie, I’m not fond of exercise.”

  “I know you’re not, but sometimes you need to play with your friends.”

  “But Hankie, you said I don’t have any friends.”

  “I said that? Ha ha. Well, the truth leaks out, doesn’t it?”

  “So . . . I’m going to get some exercise, climbing the haystack?”

  We had reached the stock tank. I turned a big smile on Kitty Kitty. “Exactly. Or here’s another idea. Had you ever considered . . . swimming?”

  Hee hee. I had just let the cat out of the sandbox. Sandbag.

  Out of the bag, let us say. I had just let the cat out of the bag.

  Chapter Three: Bathing the Cat

  Okay, we need to have a little talk. We know each other pretty well, right? And you’re aware that I’m not fond of admitting mistakes, right? Well, what would you think if I told you that I made . . . that is, what would you think if I announced . . . This is really tough, so let’s come at it from another angle, and this time I’m just going to blurt it out.

  I shouldn’t have uttered the word “swimming” in the presence of the cat.

  There, it’s all out in the open and now you’re ready to hear the second piece of bad news. Our plans for the cat blew up like a can of hair spray in a burning garbage barrel, and fellers, it happened so fast, none of us saw it coming.

  Okay, let’s take a deep breath and reset the stage. There we were, Alfred and Drover and I, standing on the cement in front of the stock tank, and Alfred was cuddling Mister Kitty Precious in his arms. All three of us were quivering with antiseptic and trying to bite back our grins, for you see . . .

  Wait, hold everything. We weren’t quivering with antiseptic. Antiseptic is that stuff you dump on a cut or wound. It kills creepy little bugs that can make your finger swell up and eat your liver, and that’s why mommies run for the medicine cabinet when little children get cuts, scratches, and aberrations.

  Abrasions, there we go. Aberrations are something else, and they don’t require anything you might find in a medicine cabinet.

  Words are interesting, aren’t they? I kind of enjoy playing around with ’em.

  Now, where were we?

  I have no idea. Huh.

  Seems to me that we were talking about something pretty exciting, but all at once . . . boy, one second you can be as focused as a laser bean, and the next, everything just goes to seed.

  Wait. Beans are seeds, right? Maybe that’s a clue that we were discussing seeds. Okay, here we go. Your average ranch in the Texas Panhandle has a whole bunch of weeds and plants, and every year they produce about ten zillion seeds. We have your grass seeds, your milkweed seeds, your cottonwood seeds, and your wildflower seeds.

  We have other objects on the ranch that never make seeds, such as your rocks, your fence posts, and your . . . Wait, we weren’t talking about seeds.

  This is frustrating. Could I have been talking about Miss Beulah? Maybe so, because . . . well, I won’t say that I think about her all the time, but several times during the course of an average day, I find myself staring at her picture on the bookshelf of my mind.

  Refined nose, gorgeous eyes, perfect ears. What a woman! But you look into those deep, intelligent eyes and you wonder . . . HOW COULD SHE LOVE A BIRD DOG? If she’s so smart, why can’t she figure out . . .

  Wait, hold everything. The cat. We were about to launch the cat into the stock tank, remember? Try to work on your concentration, and please don’t interrupt me again.

  Okay, now we’re cooking. There we stood at the edge of a stock tank full of stinking moss-water, trying our best to keep from laughing out loud, because we knew what was coming next.

  Hee hee. Kitty would go flying into the tank and we would enjoy several minutes of good, wholesome family entertainment.

  But before that could happen, I made a . . . before that could happen, Drover made one of the dumbest mistakes he’d ever made. He said (and this is a direct quote), he asked the cat, “Have you ever considered swimming?”

  Oh brother. I couldn’t believe my ears. Of all the bone-headed things he could have said! Do you have any idea what happens to a cat when you mention swimming?

  A lot. Within mere seconds, Kitty transformed into a helicopter, a buzz saw, a meat grinder, a hissing, yowling explosion of arms, legs, paws, and nasty little cat-claw razors.

  He gave Little Alfred the scratching of his young life, and then the little lunatic . . . I’m not going to tell you what else he did.

  I mean, there are some things we can report and some things that . . . uh . . . need to be shielded from public scrutiny, shall we say. Our main concern is the little children, no kidding. How would they respond if they ever found out that one of their heroes got buzz sawed by a rinky-dink little ranch cat?

  It could have a terrible effect. They might not be able to sleep for weeks. They might forget to brush their teeth. Some of them might make puddles in the bed. We just can’t risk it, and that’s why you will find a big hole in the middle of this story.

  I’m sorry to take such extreme measures, but our Security Division has pretty strict rules about this stuff. You’ll never know all the details of this case, because we’ve slapped Top Secret on all those files and they’ll stay in the vault for two hundred years.

  Please don’t whine about it. Believe me, you don’t want to hear all the grizzly details.

  But the port we can repair . . . the part we can report, let us say, is that Little Alfred gained important information about bathing cats: It’s something you might not want to try very often. I mean, he had red marks on one cheek, both arms, both hands, and the left side of his neck.

  And what about the villain? Well, after I finally got him off the back of my neck . . . hold it! Forget I said that. It’s classified and we could get in big trouble. I said nothing about a DELETED on the back of my DELETED.

  What I meant to say was that the hateful little mutter-mumble hit the ground and set sail for the house, but you’ll be proud to know that I seized this opportunity to strike a blow for children and dogs all across America.

  I leaped into my Rocket Dog suit (lucky I’d brought it along), and twisted the Blast Dial all the way to the right. The Portable Rocket Engine Backpack (PREB) kicked in and I chased the cat all the way back to the yard.

  There, I removed my flight helmet and yelled, “And that’s what you get for scratching innocent children! If you ever do it again, I’ll do it againer!”

  Pretty impressive, huh? You bet. I got him told.

  You might be wondering, “Where was Drover while all this was going on?” Great question. At the first sign of trouble, he just vanished, and we’re talking about “poof,” like a puff of smoke in a tornado.

  But never mind. I caught up with Little Alfred. He was heading for the
house in a fast walk. It was kind of a touching scene, a boy and his dog, marching home after a big triumph on the field of . . . okay, we didn’t have much to celebrate, might as well be honest about it. We’d been ambushed by a sniveling, scheming little buzz saw of a cat. I was embarrassed about it, and Alfred had collected enough scratches to last him for six months.

  We weren’t feeling too proud of ourselves is the point. In fact, Alfred’s lower lip was stuck out so far, I was afraid he might step on it.

  We found Slim in the backyard, pushing a gasoline-powered lawn mower and dripping sweat, and looking permanently mad about it. When he saw us coming, he shut off the mower, mopped his brow on his shirtsleeve, and looked down at Alfred.

  “Good honk, what got a-holt of you?”

  The boy was so mad, he was about to cry. “The dumb old cat scwatched me! Look.” He pointed to the red lines on his cheeks.

  Slim studied the marks and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Son, you’ve had a little brush with something called ‘education.’” He leaned down and lowered his voice. “When you try to throw a live cat into the water, he’ll scratch you—not every other time, but every time. Now, you ought to feel proud, ’cause Pete just raised your IQ about twenty points.”

  Alfred’s lip was still pooched out. “Can you put some medicine on my scwatches?”

  “Sure, come on.”

  Slim went slouching toward the yard gate, and Alfred said, “Hey, Swim, the medicine’s in the house.”

  “Mine ain’t. It’s in the machine shed. Come on.”

  Hmm. That seemed odd, but we followed him up the hill to the machine shed. Inside, he selected a gallon jug with big black letters that said, Kerosene. He found a grease rag that was halfway clean, dumped some kerosene on it, and dabbed it on Alfred’s wounds.

  The lad’s eyes grew wide. “Hey, that burns!”

  Slim nodded. “Yes sir, coal oil’s the best medicine you can buy. Shucks, it’ll even cure a cough if you drink it with some sugar.”

  “Yeah, but it stinks!”

  “Too bad. By grabs, when you hang out with a cowboy, you get cowboy cures. If that don’t suit you, find another babysitter. Now, leave the cat alone and let me get back to . . .”

  At that moment, we heard a vehicle pull up in front of the machine shed. You’ll never guess who it was, so I’ll tell you. No, maybe I won’t. If I told, it might scare you, and then nobody would read the next chapter.

  I guess you’ll have to keep on reading.

  Chapter Four: The Police Arrive

  Are you still with me? Good. Grab hold of something solid.

  It was Chief Deputy Sheriff Bobby Kile. Uh-oh. When the deputy sheriff shows up, it usually means trouble.

  When he stepped out of his car, Slim said, “Now, Bobby, if this is about that last overdraft on my bank account . . .”

  The deputy laughed. “Don’t worry. I was just passing through the country and thought I’d stop by and see how y’all are doing.”

  “Well, we’re hot and dry, and I’ve been demoted to yard boy and babysitter.” He jerked his thumb toward Alfred. “Me and Button were just having a seminary on cats and water.”

  The deputy narrowed his eyes and studied Alfred’s face. “What happened?”

  “Well, he offered to give the cat a bath, and I guess old Pete took a dim view of that.”

  The deputy nodded. “Cats.” His gaze wandered to the horizon and he jingled some coins in his pocket. “Slim, you ever own a parrot?”

  “A parrot? Nope.”

  “You ever wish you owned a parrot?”

  “Not even in my wildest dreams. Why?”

  The deputy gestured toward his car. “Well, I’ve got one and I need to sell him.”

  Slim chuckled. “How in thunder did you end up with a parrot?”

  “Two weeks ago, a guy from Oklahoma missed a turn and drove his pickup into Debbie Barnett’s kitchen. I answered the call and when I got there, he was still sitting in the pickup, with a parrot on his shoulder.”

  Slim was grinning. “How’d he happen to drive into Debbie’s kitchen?”

  “Well, he’d stayed too long at the beer joint and he was ‘impaired,’ as we say. He’ll be in jail for quite a spell, and I ended up with his bird.”

  “How’s that working out?”

  Deputy Kile pulled on his chin. “Slim, people pay thousands of dollars for a bird like Dink, but I’m going to make someone a special deal.”

  “Uh huh. Who’d you have in mind?”

  “I’ll sell you the bird, the perch, and twenty pounds of feed for fifty bucks. What do you say?”

  “I don’t have fifty bucks. If I did, I’d quit this yard job and go cowboying.”

  “Ten?”

  “Nope.”

  “All right, let’s cut to the chase.” The deputy’s smile faded. “I’ve had to share my office with that idiot parrot, and he’s driving me crazy. He talks all the time and he’s a troublemaker. If I can’t find a home for him, he’s liable to end up as filler in a chicken pot pie.”

  “Bobby, I’d like to help, but I just don’t have any use for a bird.”

  “What about Loper?”

  Silence. I could almost see the wheels turning in Slim’s mind. His eyes brightened and a smile bloomed on his mouth. “You know, he’s always wanted a parrot.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Why, this very morning as we were drinking coffee in the yard, he talked about how he wished someone would give him a parrot for Father’s Day.”

  Deputy Kile’s face burst into a broad smile. “Well, brother, we can fix him up!”

  He moved with uncommon speed, opened the back door of his squad car, and brought out a wooden perch with three legs. Five minutes later, the perch and the bird had been relocated on the back porch.

  Slim walked the deputy back to his car. “What keeps him from flying away?”

  “I don’t know, but you can’t pry him off that perch.”

  “You said something about him being a troublemaker?”

  They had reached the deputy’s car, and Officer Kile was wearing an odd smile. “Slim, that bird’s a genius. Once he hears a voice, he can reproduce it like a tape recorder. You have no idea . . .” He started laughing and didn’t finish his sentence.

  When he drove away, Alfred looked up at Slim. “I didn’t know my dad wanted a parrot.”

  “Yes, well, he didn’t know it either, but I think he’ll be thrilled.”

  Alfred gave his head a shake. “That doesn’t sound like my dad.”

  Chuckling to himself, Slim went back to his mowing and put Alfred to work picking up sticks and branches in the yard. Me? I figured I might as well meet the new bird and give him a little introduction to life on my ranch.

  It’s something we try to do any time a rookie shows up on the place. We call it “orientation,” and we’ve found that ten minutes of good orientation can save days of trouble on the other end.

  I swaggered up to the yard gate and studied the new guy. He was big for a bird, about the size of your average pigeon, but with a long tail, a huge curved beak, weird reddish eyes, and feathers that had every color in the rainbow: red, green, yellow, and orange. He stood on the wooden perch, cocked his head, and stared at me with one of those weird eyes.

  “My name is Hank the Cowdog. I’m head of the ranch’s Security Division. I handle cattle, special crimes, sun bark-up, postal employees, and a lot of other stuff that’s none of your business. I’m here to welcome you to my ranch.”

  I began pacing, as I often do when I have an important message to deliver. “That said, let’s forget the niceties and go straight to the point. You’re the new guy on the ranch. You’re also a bird. I don’t like either one, so your stay with us is not likely to be much fun. I don’t care.”

  “Now, let’s go ov
er the rules. We have a few simple ones. The first rule is, this is my ranch. Nothing happens out here without my permission. Period. The second, third, and fourth rules are, keep your mouth shut. Any questions so far?”

  The bird blinked his red eye and began using his beak to scratch under his left wing. “Hey, you, Dink! Stand at attention when you’re being addressed by a superior officer!” The bird stopped scratching. “That’s better. Our fifth rule is, no scratching of any kind during orientation. Scratch on your own time.”

  I turned and looked off to the west. Sure enough, Drover was peeking his head out of the machine shed. Just as I figured, he’d been watching. “Drover? Come here! Immediately.” I turned back to the bird. “I want to introduce you to my assistant, Drover C. Dog. He’s a goof-off, but in my absence, you will take orders from him.”

  Drover arrived just then, wearing his usual silly grin. “Oh, hi. What’s that?”

  “That is a parrot. Where were you when I was being shredded by the cat?”

  “What cat? Oh, you mean down at the stock tank?”

  “That’s correct. Answer the question.”

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

  I gave him a withering glare. “I guess you did. Your commanding officer had been ambushed by a deranged cat, and you ran from the field of battle.”

  “Yeah, the noise was hurting my ears.”

  “Hurting your ears! Do you have any idea what was happening to my ears? That cat was trying to tear them off my head! Thirteen Chicken Marks, Drover, and one hour with your nose in the corner.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Hush.” I turned back to the parrot. “Sorry, Birdie, we had a little departmental business to clean up.” I cast a glance over to the iris patch and saw a pair of scheming little eyes peering out at us. “Okay, Pete, step out, I know you’re there.”

  A moment later, the little creep oozed out into the light of day and began rubbing on the side of the house. “Well, well, it’s Hankie the Wonderdog. How nice to see you again! We ought to go swimming some time, hee hee.” He looked up at the parrot and batted his eyes. “My my, what a pretty bird.”