The Further Adventures of Hank the Cowdog Page 4

  “Here, Roof, down boy, hyah, cut that out!”

  Billy took his pet dragon by the collar and dragged him a short distance away. Loper held me back. “Billy, that’s quite a dog you’ve got there.”

  “He’s bad, ain’t he? I figgered I needed a dog around that could take care of business. Say, I thought old Hank was a better fighter than that.”

  Loper looked down at me. “So did I.”

  I wagged my tail and whimpered. Couldn’t he see that my dadgum eyes were crossed? I mean, how can a dog fight with Eye-Crosserosis?

  Loper didn’t notice. “I guess he’s showing his age. You don’t think about these dogs getting old, but they do, same as the rest of us. Well, Hank, anything broke?”

  Only my heart, but I didn’t expect him to care about that.

  “Well,” Billy said, “guess I’d better take this beast home before he does any more damage. Y’all come see us.”

  “Sure will. Y’all too.”

  They got into the pickup and drove off. I’ll never forget the expression on Beulah’s face as they pulled out. She just looked at me with big sad eyes while Roof-Roof sat on the bale of hay like a king on his throne.

  When they were gone, Loper reached down and rubbed me behind the ears. “Well, Hank, I guess you’re not the top dog in the neighborhood anymore. Kinda hurts, don’t it?”

  Loper and Slim went back to work and left me there alone. It kinda hurt, yes it did.

  (FINAL NOTE: Don’t forget to destroy this chapter. And don’t let the kids find out what happened.)

  Chapter Six: Drover Turns on the Dearest Friend He Has in This World

  Everyone left and I limped and dragged myself toward the gas tanks, figgered I needed a long spell of rest because I was so sore and beat up from the fight.

  I’d gone maybe twenty-five steps when it occurred to me that I couldn’t see the gas tanks, didn’t know exactly which way to go, and was too wore out to get there anyway.

  I mean, that Doberman had given me a terrible beating. My throat hurt, my neck hurt, my ears had been chewed up. I was limping on one front leg and packing one of the back ones. When you were built to be a four-legged creature, it’s hard to motivate on two.

  I found the corral fence and followed it around to the gate in front of the saddle shed. That was as far as I could go. I flopped down and waited for help to arrive. I knew Drover would be along directly and he could lead me down to the gas tanks and help me into bed.

  I waited and waited. Drover didn’t show up. Couldn’t understand that. You’d think the little guy would come around just as soon as he was sure the coast was clear. I mean, when the Head of Ranch Security is out of commission, that’s cause for concern, right?

  About half an hour later, I heard something off to the south. With considerable effort, I lifted my head and looked in that direction. Couldn’t see anything but a blur, but my ears are pretty keen and I got a good reading on the sound.

  It was kind of a click-click-click, made by a four-legged animal with a short stride. The click part came from little claws hitting the hard ground.

  It was Drover, I knew it was. “Drover, I’m over here!”

  I cocked my head and listened. Whoever it was didn’t answer. He broke into a run and took off to the east, and in a minute the sound was gone.

  That was strange. Why would Drover take off like that? Surely he knew I’d been beat up and needed some help.

  Well, I thought about it and came up with an answer. Drover was out looking for me and with his poor vision and dead nose, he just hadn’t located me yet. He’d find me after a bit.

  But why had he run when he heard me call? That was a little harder to fit into the picture, but you know, when a guy wants the picture to come out right, he’ll find ways of making it. Facts don’t squeal when you stuff ’em where you want ’em to go.

  I told myself that Drover was still shook up over the big fight and hadn’t got his nerves under control yet. My voice had scared him. He’d come around after a while.

  Well, the hours dragged on and still no Drover. The afternoon sun got blistering hot and the wind blew sand in my eyes. Along toward the end of the day, I was feeling mighty weak and thirsty and decided I’d better give up waiting for Drover. I mean, it might take him another half-day to find me.

  So I pushed myself up on all two legs (I was packing the other two, remember) and limped over in front of the saddle shed door, where the cowboys were sure to find me when they shut down for the night. It couldn’t have been more than ten-twelve steps, but it took all my energy just to get there.

  I flopped down, curled up in a ball, and waited. Sure ’nuff, at sundown Slim and Loper came along and put their saddle-horses up for the night.

  I was in perfect position. They couldn’t put their saddles up without seeing me there, and I felt sure that once they saw my wretched condition, they’d give me some well-deserved sympathy and maybe carry me down to the gas tanks.

  Slim pulled off his saddle and came up to the door. His eyes were red from the dirt and the wind, and he looked tired. “Move, Hank, I got to get in.” I lifted my head and whapped my tail and whined, figgered that would give him a hint that I was stove up. “Well, suit yourself.”

  He opened the door, stepped over me, and went inside, dragging his saddle. I took a lick from all four cinches and both stirrups, and I mean that last one hurt.

  Then Loper came. He looked down at me and muttered something under his breath, then he tried to walk over me and stepped on my tail and so naturally I yelped.

  What’s so bad about that? I mean, my tail’s alive and when you step on it it hurts, and when it hurts I yelp. Seems reasonable to me.

  But Loper stumbled and I guess he got sore about it. “Hank, for crying out loud, do you have to park yourself right in the middle of traffic?”

  Slim came over to the door and looked down at me. “He acts like he don’t feel real good.”

  Well, at last we were getting somewhere. I whapped my tail to let ’em know that they were on the right track.

  Then Loper said, “If he can’t whip these dogs anymore, he’s gonna have to learn to stay out of fights.” They stepped over me and closed up the shed. “If you can’t handle Billy’s dog, then next time he comes around you better go to the house, you hear? When your body fails, you have to use your brain, if you’ve got one.”

  That’s the kind of sympathy you get around this ranch. All they expect is a twenty-four hour day, a perfect record, and a pint of blood every now and then just to prove . . . oh well.

  A guy can’t afford to get worked up about in-justice. It’s worse than running rabbits.

  Darkness fell and there I was, all alone, curled up in a ball of hair with the wind blowing dirt in my face. The moon came up and the coyotes started howling. If they’d known my condition, they could have ravaged the place, I mean swept down and pillaged it from one end to the other.

  I could only hope they wouldn’t launch an attack, because ranch security was at its most dangerous level in many years.

  At last I drifted off to sleep. Don’t recall what time it was when I woke up. I heard some noise out there between the saddle shed and the house. My usual response would have been to leap into action and sound the alarm, but I wasn’t up to my usual response. I growled. That was about the best I could do.

  “Who’s out there? State your name and your business or I’ll . . . who’s there?”

  There was a moment of silence, then I heard Drover’s voice. “Hank? You okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay, and what do you mean, creeping around in the night?”

  “Oh! I was up and thought I ought to come check on you.”

  “Well you sure took your time getting here. Where the devil have you been?”

  “I got busy with some things, Hank, and just never got around.”

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nbsp; “Get over here, so I won’t have to yell. My throat hurts.”

  He came closer but stopped about ten feet away. He seemed kind of uneasy about something. “This better?”

  “Is there some reason why you can’t come over here where I am? I ain’t got scabies.”

  “I know that, but I . . . Hank, I don’t want to see you this way. I guess that’s why I didn’t come around sooner.”

  “What do you mean by that? I’m the same Hank only a little beat up.”

  “That’s what I mean. Beat up.” He looked down at his feet and kind of shuffled around. “I’ve seen you fight monsters and coyotes and coons, and you always won. I guess I thought . . . you see what I mean?”

  “Yeah, it’s coming clear. A guy loses one fight and all his so-called friends think he’s over the hill. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “It makes a guy wonder. I don’t know what to think.”

  “Why you little pipsqueak! Just for that, I’m gonna . . .” I pushed myself up and started after him. Went two steps and fell down, just didn’t have the energy to thrash him.

  “That’s what I mean, Hank. You ought to give me a licking for saying all this stuff . . . but you can’t. I can do anything I want to do . . . but I don’t know what I want to do. I’m all confused.”

  “You’re definitely confused.”

  “But see, I know that if I wanted to stick my tongue out at you—like this—I could do it.”

  He did it, stuck his tongue out at me. “Watch it, Drover, you’re breeding a scab on the end of your nose.”

  “And I got a suspicion that if I wanted to parade in front of you—like this—I could do it too.”

  And that’s just what the runt did, paraded in front of me and stuck out his tongue. I took a snap at him, but he was out of my range.

  “Drover, you’re courting disaster.”

  “And Hank, I have an idea that I could even throw some dirt on you and get by with it.”

  “I wouldn’t try that, son.”

  “I know you wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t either . . . only I just want to. Like this.” He scratched the ground with his paw and threw dirt on me.

  I couldn’t believe he did that. On a better day, I would have torn him apart, I mean ripped him up one side and down the other. But I had to lie there and take it. I managed to growl, but that was my best lick.

  “Okay, Drover, you did it. You happy now?”

  “No, I feel awful, I hate myself, I just don’t know what to think any more . . . only I bet I could do it again.” And he did it again, threw dirt on me, stuck out his tongue, and went prancing back and forth.

  Then he started crying. “Oh Hank, why did you have to get whipped? I was happy the way things were, but now I just feel like a louse! Tell me what to do.”

  I shook the dirt off. “All right, I’ll tell you what to do. First thing, say you’re sorry. Second thing, go up to the gas tank and say ‘I will be more respectful to the Head of Ranch Security’ a thousand times. And then go out on patrol and take care of the ranch.”

  “All of that?”

  “Yes sir, every bit of it.”

  He rolled his eyes and looked up at the stars. “But Hank, I don’t want to . . . and I don’t have to . . . because you can’t make me.”

  I stared at him. “Then why did you ask?”

  “I don’t know. I better go, Hank, before I make you mad.”

  “You’re a little late for that, son.”

  He started backing away. “I’m sorry, Hank, I really am. I just wanted to find out . . .”

  He took off and that was the last I saw of the sawed-off, stub-tailed, ungrateful little wretch. But all through the night I heard him. You think he was out on patrol? Taking care of the ranch? Keeping an eye on the chickenhouse? Checking for coons?

  No sir, he was out there playing peekaboo with Pete the Barncat.

  Chapter Seven: Tricked, Led Astray, and Abandoned to a Terrible Fate

  I had thought that maybe I would be better come morning, but I was worse. Not only did I ache and throb from nose to tail, but I was getting weak from hunger and thirst.

  And as if that wasn’t enough, along about ten o’clock in the morning the ants and flies started moving in on me.

  It started with a couple of big green flies buzzing around my ears. Well, you know me. I don’t allow that, never have. I sat up and took defensive action. I snapped and growled and sent one of them to fly heaven, which was very satisfying but not so good in the taste department. Never did care for the taste of green flies.

  The other one kept it up. Then there were two and four and ten and twenty, and I was wore out and couldn’t keep them away. Finally I laid my head down and gave up.

  They crawled over my nose, buzzed in my ears, walked around my eyes, and bit me on the rump, which really hacked me off but I didn’t have the energy to fight back.

  Then came the ants, those little black villains that march in single file and contribute absolutely nothing to this world, except they sting innocent victims and drive you nuts. Why were they put on this earth? You got me.

  They came in rows and columns, marching up to me in unending lines. I don’t know what they expected to find or why they singled me out, but by ten-thirty I had become a major population center for ants.

  They crawled up my tail and just by George moved in. They were in my hair, on my face, inside my ears and nose and mouth, and when they found something they didn’t approve of, they just stung it.

  Hateful little things.

  I tried to fight them off for a while, but there was no end to them, they just kept coming. I was too tired and weak and hungry to fight anymore, so I gave up. Heck, if they wanted to eat me alive, that was okay with me, long as I didn’t have to put out any effort.

  I guess it was around noon when Slim and Loper came around. I must have looked pretty ragged by then because I got their attention.

  Loper bent down and started picking ants off my face. “Say, this dog’s not doing any good. What’s wrong, Hank?”

  I lifted my head and gave him a wooden stare. What was wrong? I’d been defeated in battle, wounded, abandoned, mocked, and abused. I was thirsty, half-starved, windblown, sunburned, and tormented by ants and flies. My spirit was smashed, my heart was broken, and I didn’t give a rip whether I lived or died.

  Other than that, it was a pretty nice day.

  Slim bent down too. I heard his knees pop. “Maybe we better get him some food, reckon? You want some grub, Hankie?”

  Slim stayed at the saddle shed and Loper went up to the house. He came back with a bowl of milk and eggs. I would have preferred scrambled eggs. It takes too much energy to eat them raw. I mean, you got to chase down the slimy part and get a handle on it before you can eat it.

  But in this life you don’t always get your eggs scrambled.

  I got to admit that the boys were pretty nice to me this time. I mean, it came about twenty-four hours too late, but at least they made an effort. They set the bowl down in front of my nose and went on to lunch.

  I took a few bites and decided maybe it was worth the trouble of eating, when all at once guess who came along, rubbing up against the fence, purring like a little chain saw, and holding his tail high in the air. You got it. Pete.

  I stopped eating and gave him a withering glare.

  “Umm, hi, Hankie, time to eat?”

  “Scram, cat. I got no time for your foolishness.”

  “Where’d you get all the flies?”

  “I got lonesome.”

  He grinned and sharpened his claws on a fencepost. “What would you take for some milk and eggs, Hankie? I just love milk and eggs.”

  “I’d take one of your legs and about six inches off that tail. Beat it.”

  He looked at his claws and rubbed against the post and moved to
ward the bowl in his typical dumb-cat manner, purring and switching the tip of his tail.

  I don’t know what it is about that tail-switching, but it just don’t sit right with me. There’s something about it that gets me stirred up. I glared at him and growled.

  He walked up to the edge of the bowl, flicked his paw into the milk, and licked it. “Ummm! That’s mighty tasty, Hankie. How come they’re giving you milk and eggs today? That’s pretty plush treatment for a dog . . .” He turned and curled the end of his tail around my nose. “. . . that got whipped.”

  I snapped at him, missed amputating his tail by just a matter of inches. “I’ll plush your treatment if you don’t get that tail out of my face.”

  He grinned. “How come your eyes are crossed, Hankie?”

  “It’s the latest style.”

  “It must be hard to be cocky when you’re cross-eyed, hmm?”

  “I’ll manage. Stick that tail over here one more time and I’ll show you.”

  He did, I snapped, I missed, he grinned. “Strike two, Hankie. Your aim’s not what it used to be. That’s sure too bad because,” he took a big stretch and dug his claws into the dirt, “because I just might try to steal your milk.”

  “You touch my milk and you’re a dead cat.”

  “Bet you can’t stop me.”

  I pushed myself up to a sitting position—with considerable effort, I might add—and prepared for combat. “You just try it.”

  He reached out his paw and touched the surface of the milk, ever so lightly. “I touched it.”

  He touched off a by-George explosion, is what he touched. I didn’t think I had enough energy to romp a cat, but come to find out I did. I made a slash at him and missed. He walked away, flicking his tail and grinning at me over his shoulder.

  “Strike three, Hankie. Bet you can’t catch me.”

  I lunged at him and got him. Well, I got some hairs off the end of his tail, actually, but that was enough to make me want some more. I made another pounce at him.