The Case of the Black-Hooded Hangmans Read online

tough

  fluff

  fluffy feathers

  going to be a tough assignment, and perhaps the hardest part would be trying to stay asnork

  mirk snicklefritz

  Beulah calling my name

  lovely brown eyes and flaxen

  porkchops

  snorking the murgle skiffer

  and had to stay awake

  awoke

  awoken

  away in the clouds of feathers

  rushing to burble the murgle

  mumpus womp ragamuffin

  turkey bork asnork . . .

  I seemed to be hearing a sound. The sound of footsteps approaching. The crunching of snow.

  It must be Beulah. She needed me. Beulah needed me. At last, no more bird dog. “I’m coming, Beulah. I’ll save you from the rioting porkchops.”

  I opened my eyes and . . . HUH?

  Perhaps I had dozed. Yes, I’m almost sure I had. Not for long, just a short . . . and yet, something had happened to the darkness of night. It had vanished, so to speak, and turned into the . . . well, the lightness of day.

  It was daylight. My goodness, how could that be?

  Somehow, through some atmospheric condition that even I didn’t understand, somehow the hours between midnight and daylight had compressed themselves and passed in just a matter of minutes . . . while I dozed.

  How else could you explain it? I knew, and was 100 percent sure, that I hadn’t slept more than a few minutes, because . . . well, sleeping on the job just wasn’t something we did in the Security Business.

  Yes, this was a rare, a very rare condition of the atmosphere, happens only once or twice every hundred years, when you get a layer of cold air and a layer of warm air and . . .

  I suddenly became aware of my surroundings. I blinked my eyes and gazed around. Holy cats, I was in the chicken house, sitting on . . . sitting on a nest? Impossible. There was no way on earth that a Head of Ranch Security would be . . .

  Oops. Okay, the events of the past several hours came tumbling back to my memory.

  Eddy.

  My good pal Eddy. My business partner Eddy. Eddy the Magical Rac who, it appeared, had not awakened me after two hours, as he had promised, so here I was, sitting on a stupid . . .

  He had left me hung out to dry, is what he had done, and it was daylight and it just happened that Sally May usually gathered her eggs at that time of the day, and . . . yikes.

  I stood up and looked down into the nest to see if the broken eggs had . . . my head came up very slowly. I cut my eyes from side to side.

  Okay, it was all coming clear now. The pieces of the puzzle had finally begun to fall into place.

  You remember that crazy story, that wild stupid unbelievable story he’d told me, about how broken eggs will knit back together if a guy sits on the nest for two hours?

  Lies, all lies.

  I hadn’t believed that story, not for one minute, not even for a second, although . . . okay, maybe I’d believed it for a few brief seconds, just long enough to . . .

  But the bottom line was that . . . actually, there were several bottom lines, all of which threatened to, uh, shorten my career. Those bottom lines were:

  1.Eddy had told me a huge whopper of a lie.

  2.I, being a trusting soul, had believed him . . . although not totally and not for very long.

  3.I now found myself inside Sally May’s chicken house.

  4.Sally May’s chicken house was a very dangerous place for a dog to be at sunrise.

  5.Twenty-two head of Leghorn hens were sitting on their nests, staring at me and just waiting to go off in an explosion of feathers and squawking.

  6.And, worst of all, I heard someone coming.

  Holy smokes, my goose was cooked!

  Chapter Seven: Saved by My Little Pal

  The footsteps were coming closer. I knew it was Sally May—had to be—and suddenly I was seized by panic and terror.

  Cold chills ran down my backbone. My breaths came in short bursts. My heart began to pound like a bass drum.

  Fellers, it looked very bad, even hopeless.

  See, if I moved or tried to run, the chickens would go off, and just imagine how that would look to Sally May—me running out of a squawking henhouse.

  But if I didn’t move or try to run, she would walk in and find me sitting upon a nestful of . . . well, used eggs, you might say. And naturally, she would never think to pin the blame on the guilty party.

  Oh no. She would leap to conclusions and follow the line of superficial evidence which . . . which sure ’nuff led right to my front door, so to speak.

  Gulp.

  Closer and closer. Crunch. Crunch. The footsteps stopped at the door. Maybe she would . . .

  Someone was fingering the latch. My eyes focused on the knob. I froze, didn’t even dare to breathe. Maybe she would . . .

  The knob turned.

  The door swung open. The squeaking of the hinges stabbed the silence.

  I tried to swallow but my mouth had gone dry.

  A long shadow fell across the floor of the chicken house. It wasn’t the shadow of Eddy the Rac or Drover or anyone else I wanted to see at that moment.

  It was a human shadow. It was coming inside.

  Well, I’d had a pretty good life. I had always hoped it would be a little longer than this, and I really hadn’t planned for it to end in a chicken house, but a guy doesn’t always get to pick and choose his . . .

  A human form appeared in the doorway. I found myself staring into the eyes of . . . Little Alfred?

  All the air went out of my body. I almost fainted with joy.

  He stared at me with wide eyes and then a grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Hankie, what are you doing?”

  Well, it did . . . uh, look strange, me sitting on a nest in the . . . in the chicken house. It wasn’t the sort of thing a . . . well, a guard dog, a ranch dog would do under . . . uh, normal conditions.

  I gave him a big smile and whapped my tail.

  He crept over to me. “Are you twying to way an egg?”

  Uh . . . no, not exactly. You see, Eddy had told me . . . there was no way I could explain it. All at once I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I had done something REALLY STUPID.

  I stood up. The boy’s eyes went to the . . . well, to the pile . . . to the collection of . . . to the accumulation, shall we say, of eggshells . . . uh, in the nest below me.

  His eyes widened. His mouth fell open. Air rushed into his lungs. He covered his mouth with a hand.

  “Hankie! You twied to hatch the eggs and you bwoke ’em!”

  I cut my eyes from side to side. Why yes, that’s exactly what I had . . . what a clever lad! My good­ness, with just a few clues and signs, he had by George pieced the whole thing together.

  Yes, sometime in the night I had gotten this wild crazy idea, see, and had wondered . . . I had always wondered if a dog could sit on a chicken’s nest and hatch the eggs.

  So, uh, I’d tried it. Hopped up on the nest. But darn the luck, I hadn’t thought about . . . well, what the weight of a dog would do to a bunch of little bitty eggs, don’t you see, and darn the luck, I’d broken them all.

  I gave him my most sincere smile and several big wags.

  But the important point here, and the point I tried hardest to convey and emphasize, was that THIS WAS NO ORDINARY CASE OF EGG THEFT. The eggs had merely broken, is all.

  No kidding. Nobody had eaten them.

  The boy whistled under his breath. “If Mom finds out that you sat on her eggs, Hankie, she’s gonna be mad.”

  Yes, I’d thought of that, so . . . uh, what could we do to . . . well, prevent the spread of violence and bloodshed?

  He cast slow glances over both shoulders. “She�
�ll be out here pwetty quick. We’d better hide the shells.”

  Great idea. I, uh, hadn’t thought of that, but yes, anything to halt the spread of . . . uh . . . violence and bloodshed and promote peace on the ranch. I was for that 100 percent.

  I hopped out of the nest. While Alfred gathered up the eggshells and crammed them into his pockets, I turned to the rows of hens sitting on their nests. They were watching us very carefully.

  “Hi there,” I said with a warm smile. “We had a little accident over here, no big deal, nothing major, just a small mess. We’ll have it cleaned up in a second and be on our way. Y’all have a good day now, hear?”

  I gave them a wink and a casual wave and backed out the door. Alfred followed and eased the door shut. He held his breath and listened. Two or three hens clucked but that was it.

  I almost fainted with relief. Holy smokes, had we dodged a bullet or what? I went straight over to the boy and gave him my biggest, juiciest, most thankful lick on the cheek and ear.

  He laughed and pushed me away. “Quit wicking me.” Then his face grew solemn and he shook his finger in my face. “Hankie, dogs can’t make eggs hatch. Don’t do that anymore.”

  He was right. I knew he was right. It had been silly of me to think that I could, uh, hatch out a bunch of eggs. I assured him that it would never happen again.

  Never ever. And at that point I began plotting my revenge on Eddy the Rac. He would pay for this.

  I headed for his cage. Huh? It was empty. Well, that fit his pattern of sneaky behavior. After luring me into his web of lies and half-truths, now he was afraid to come back and face the roses.

  Not a bad idea, actually. Perhaps he knew what kind of roses I had planned to give him: a big one, right on the end of his nose.

  I heard Little Alfred coming up behind me. “Uh-oh. Eddy’s gone. But wook. Twacks in the snow.”

  I “wooked,” so to speak, and sure enough, there was a clear line of raccoon tracks, heading off to the south in the direction of Wolf Creek. “Wet’s see if we can find Eddy.”

  Find Eddy? I wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. I mean, Alfred’s mom had laws against him taking off on hikes without her permission. And this was January, a month when the weather tended to be cold and unpredictable. February, actually.

  On the other hand, I could see certain advantages in being somewhere else when Sally May came out to gather the eggs. Maybe she wouldn’t find evidence of broken eggs, but surely she would notice the . . . well, sudden drop in production.

  That could lead to hard questions and . . . yes, by George, it was a nice morning for a walk.

  Why not? The boy was dressed for the weather—snow boots, gloves, cap, and insulated coveralls—and we would leave a clear trail in the snow. If someone really wanted to find us, they could do it without much trouble.

  Slim and Loper fancied themselves to be expert trackers, you know, and following our trail would give them a little exercise and something to brag about.

  And besides all that, Alfred didn’t ask my opinion. He was already on the trail, and I had to run to catch up with him.

  We hiked down the hill behind the house and passed the gas tanks. Drover was there, and would you like to guess what he was doing? Pushing up a long line of Z’s. Sleeping his life away. Home­steading his gunnysack.

  I called to him as we walked past. “Wake up, Halfstepper. Arise and sing. We’re on our way to conquer new worlds and you’re about to miss the bus.”

  He jumped straight up and staggered around in a crazy circle. His eyes were crooked, his ears were crooked. Heck, I think even his nose was crooked. These were all sure and clear signs that the little mutt was still half asleep.

  He staggered out to join us. “Oh my gosh, did you see that bus?”

  “Bus? No, I didn’t see a bus.”

  “Well, I did, saw it with my own eyes.”

  “Hmm. That’s odd.”

  “Not really. I’ve never used anybody else’s.”

  “Anybody else’s what?”

  “Eyes. I always use my own.”

  “Hmm, yes, of course. So do I.”

  “You saw it too?”

  “I didn’t say that, Drover, and stop leaping to conclusions. Let’s take this thing one step at a time.”

  “Yeah, ’cause one step always comes before the next one.”

  “Exactly. A bus on this ranch? Somehow that doesn’t add up.”

  “Yeah, I never was very good with numbers, but I’ve got good eyes and they saw it.”

  “Hmm. Strange. Maybe you’d better give me a description.”

  “Well, let’s see. Big. It was big. Real big.”

  “Got it. Go on. How about wheels? Did it have wheels?”

  “Oh yeah, lots of wheels.”

  “Numbers, Drover. We need numbers.”

  “Okay. 37, 13, 68, and 4.”

  I stared at him. “The number of wheels. On the bus.”

  “Oh. I thought you just wanted some numbers.”

  “No. The number of wheels.”

  “Eight?”

  “Yes, but it was cornbread and I almost choked, so that doesn’t count. But the eggs were delicious, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  At that point we reached the north bank of Wolf Creek, and here we had to suspend my interrogation. Why? Because we had to cross the creek.

  Hang on while we cross the creek.

  Chapter Eight: Yikes! A Haunted House!

  Little Alfred, who was serving as the official tracker on this expedition, led us across the creek. Drover and I followed.

  I waded through the water. Drover hopped across because . . . well, he doesn’t like water. He reminded me of a grasshopper, the way he hopped around.

  On the south bank, I returned to the interrogation.

  “Let’s see, where were we?”

  “Counting cornbread. I think.”

  “No, I said that the cornbread didn’t count.”

  “Yeah, arithmetic is tough.”

  “Speaking of ticks, I haven’t seen any lately.”

  “No, it’s winter.”

  “Exactly.” We walked along in silence. “Nice day.”

  “Yeah. It’s starting to snow again.”

  “That’s true, which explains why all these snow­­flakes are falling from the sky.” Another long silence. “Drover, I have a feeling that something has happened to this conversation.”

  “I wonder what it could be!”

  “I’m not sure. I just have this feeling . . . okay, I’ve got it. We were doing a work-up on the bus! I waited for him to pick it up from there. “You do remember the bus, don’t you?”

  “Well . . . not really. What bus?”

  “The bus, Drover, the bus that came through the ranch just a short while ago.”

  “I’ll be derned. What did it look like?”

  “Well, let’s see. It had eight wheels, as I recall, and it was big. A huge bus. Red, bright red.”

  “I’ll be derned. Was anybody on it?”

  “Hmmm, let’s see here. That’s an obvious question. Funny how you don’t notice those details in the midst of . . . a driver. There must have been a driver, Drover.”

  “Hello.”

  “What?”

  “Someone called my name.”

  I stuck my nose in the runt’s face and gave him some fangs to look at. “I called your name. Is it possible that your mind had wandered, that you weren’t listening to my description of the . . . wait a minute. Why am I describing the bus?”

  “Well . . . I don’t know.”

  “YOU’RE the one who saw the stupid bus, so you ought to be the one describing it.”

  “I’ll be derned.”

  We came to a halt. I stared into the great empti­ness of his eyes. “Y
ou DID see a bus, didn’t you?”

  “Well . . . I don’t think so. What would a bus be doing out here on the ranch?”

  “Drover, sometimes I . . .”

  I couldn’t find the words to express the scrambled feeling in my head, so I started walking again. I caught up with Little Alfred. I threw myself into the task of following the trail. I had to do something to clear the fog out of my brain.

  Here he came, padding along and snapping at an occasional snowflake. “What you doing, Hank?”

  “I’m working, Drover, doing my job, following tracks.”

  “Oh good.” He stared down at the trail. “Are those bus tracks?”

  My head shot up and I fixed him with a gaze of coldest steel. “Okay, that’s it, that’s all I can stand. Drover, I have no choice but to put you on report for the rest of the day. You get three Shame-on-You’s and I forbid you ever to say the word bus again.”

  He hung his head. “Gosh, what if I see one? What will I call it?”

  “Call it a sub. That’s bus backward.”

  “What if I see a sub?”

  “Call it a tub.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense.”

  “No, and neither do you, so hush.”

  We continued along in silence for a full ten seconds. Then he said, “They don’t look like sub tracks to me.”

  “HUSH!”

  At last he hushed and I was able to concentrate. I mean, after trying to carry on an intelligent conversation with Drover, I had just about lost all my bearings. And marbles.

  Talk to Drover sometime and see if you don’t lose your marbles.

  He’s a very strange dog, and I mean VERY strange.

  Where was I? I didn’t know where I was—standing at a bus stop, waiting for a submarine, counting cornbread, tracking a washtub, I didn’t know what was going on.

  Boy!

  At last I returned to my senses and began to realize that Little Alfred had led us quite a distance from the house. Not only had we crossed Wolf Creek but we had crossed a barbed wire fence and were now in the Parnells’ bull pasture, just east of the Dark Unchanted Forest.

  I began to feel uneasy about this. In the first place, Alfred hadn’t told his ma where he was going. In the second place, a bull pasture was not my favorite place to be. (It contained bulls, don’t you see.) And in the third place, if this snow kept up, it would cover our tracks, and if anything bad happened . . .