The Original Adventures of Hank the Cowdog Read online

  You have to be in the mood for Pete, and I wasn’t. I made a dive for him and he escaped instant death by a matter of inches. He hissed and ran, and I fell in right behind him.

  I chased him around the corrals. He hissed and I barked. There were several horses in the west lot and they all started bucking and kicking up their heels. It was my lousy luck that Slim happened to be riding one of them—a two-year-old colt, as I recall—and he started yelling.

  “Hank, get outa here! Whoa, Sinbad, easy bronc!”

  Nobody around here ever yells at the cat. Why? I don’t know, I just don’t understand.

  I gave up the chase. I would settle accounts with Pete some other day. I loped over to the gas tank, looking for Drover. He heard me coming, sat up, saw the chicken head around my neck, turned tail, and sprinted for the machine shed as fast as he could go.

  “Drover, wait, it’s me, Hank!”

  He kept going. I guess he didn’t want to get involved with a criminal.

  I went down to the gas tank and lay down. Boy, I felt low. I tried to sleep but didn’t have much luck. That chicken head was starting to smell, and it reminded me all over again of the injustice of my situation.

  Off in the distance, I could hear Pete. He was still up in the tree he had climbed to escape my attack, and he was singing a song called “Mommas, Don’t Let Your Puppies Grow Up to Be Cowdogs.” Now and then he would stop singing, and I would hear him laughing. Really got under my skin.

  I lay there brooding for a long time. Then I pushed myself up and all of a sudden it was clear what I would have to do. They had left me no choice.

  I took one last look at my bedroom there under the gas tank, and started up the hill. As I passed by the machine shed door, Drover stuck his head out.

  “Psst! Where you going?”

  I trotted past. “I’m leaving.”

  He crept out, glanced around to see if anybody was watching, and came after me. “Leaving?”

  “That’s right. I quit, I resign.”

  His jaw dropped. “You can’t do that.”

  “You just watch me. This chicken head was the last straw. I’m fed up with this place. I’m moving on.”

  “Moving . . . where you going?”

  “I don’t know yet. West, toward the setting sun.”

  He was quiet for a minute, then, “I’ll go with you.”

  “No you won’t.”

  “How come?”

  “Because, Drover, I’m starting a new life. I’m gonna become an outlaw.”

  The breath whistled through his throat. “An outlaw!”

  “That’s right. They’ve driven me to it. I tried to run this ranch, but it just didn’t work. I’m going back to the wild. One of these days, they’ll be sorry.”

  “But, Hank . . .”

  “Good-bye, Drover. Take care of things. I’m sorry it has to end this way. Next time we meet, I won’t be Hank the Cowdog. I’ll be Hank the Outlaw. So long.”

  And with that, I trotted off to a new life as a criminal, outcast, nomad, and wild dog.

  Chapter Six: Buzzards

  I made my way north, away from headquarters and up into the canyon country. If a dog was going to go back to the wild, that was the place to go.

  Funny, how good it felt walking away from everything—the job, the responsibility, the constant worry. When I crossed the road there by the mailbox, I felt free for the first time in years.

  On the other side of the road, I stopped and looked back. Drover had followed me about a hundred yards and stopped. He was watching. Maybe he thought I would change my mind and go back. Maybe he was waiting for me to tell him to come on.

  I didn’t. I ran my eyes over the ranch I had loved and protected for so many years, waved farewell to Drover, and went on my way.

  I wondered how Loper and Slim and Sally May would react when they figgered out that I had resigned and moved on. I had an idea they’d be sorry. They’d realize how they’d done me wrong and misjudged me and accused me of terrible things I didn’t do. I mean, all I did was eat a dead chicken, and she wasn’t a bit deader when I finished than when I started.

  Maybe they’d cry. Why not? A lot of people cry over their dogs. They tell me that when Lassie and Rin Tin Tin were big on TV, people used to cry when they thought Lassie was in a jam she couldn’t get out of, and when Rinny had got himself chewed up by a bear and it appeared that he wouldn’t pull out of it.

  People never realize just how important a dog is until it’s too late. In life we get yelled at and cursed and kicked around, but when we’re gone, people wish they had us back.

  Yeah, they’d cry when they found out that old Hank had moved on, and they’d cry even harder when it dawned on them that their ranch was being protected—and I mean so-called protected—by Pete the cat and Drover the chickenhearted.

  That would wring tears out of a bodark post.

  Yep, they’d cry and they’d say, “Oh, I wish we had Hankie back! He had his faults but he was a good honest dog. It just won’t be the same around here without him.”

  Around sundown, they’d walk out into the pasture and call, “Here Hank, come on Hankie, here boy!”

  And you know what? I’d be up in them canyons, eating fresh meat instead of Co-op dog food, listening to the sounds of nature, and enjoying pure peace and freedom.

  I’d hear ’em calling my name, begging me to come back, but I wouldn’t go. They’d had their chance. I’d tried to go straight and live within the law but they’d drove me to drastic measures, drove me to follow the owl-hoot trail and become an outlaw.

  Next morning, they’d get in the pickup and go driving around, checking all the spots where I used to hang out: the sewer, the gas tanks, the corral, the creek. But I wouldn’t be there.

  Then they’d drive over to the neighbor’s place. “Anybody seen Hank? We’ve lost our cowdog. No? Well, we’re offering a five-hundred-dollar reward to anybody who finds him.”

  Then they’d start driving through the pastures, honking the horn and calling, “Hank, here boy! Come on home, Hankie, we miss you. We’re sorry for everything we’ve done. We’ll do anything if you’ll just come home.”

  Laying off in them canyons, I’d hear ’em calling. Peeking through the rocks, I’d see ’em driving slow across the pasture. But I wouldn’t go back. Injustice had changed me, turned me bitter and snapped something inside me.

  Anyway, that’s what I was thinking about when I turned my back on the ranch forever and hit the owl-hoot trail.

  They say you’re not supposed to feel good about other people’s misfortunes, but I got to admit that it gave me considerable wicked pleasure to know that I had left ’em weeping, and that with me gone the ranch was gonna fall apart real quick.

  That’s the kind of satisfaction that dog food and a flea collar just won’t buy.

  Must have been late afternoon when I reached the wild country, up near the head of one of them canyons. It was pretty hot down there, not much breeze. The canyon walls rose up a hundred feet in the air and a couple of buzzards floated in the sky overhead.

  I was pretty tired and my feet was kind of sore from walking over the rocks, so when I found a little spring of water, I jumped in and rolled around. It was pleasant but not nearly as satisfying as a roll in the sewer.

  That was one thing about my old life that I would miss. I always looked forward to the middle of the day when me and Drover used to go down to the place where the septic tank overflowed, hop in, and splash and roll around with our paws in the air and then get out and have a good old fashioned head-to-tail shake.

  You can say what you want about spring water, but if you ask me, it ain’t near as refreshing or healthful as good old septic tank water. And I always liked the deep rich manly smell of it. A dog ought to smell like a dog, seems to me, and I never had no desire to be one of those town do
gs that get their hair clipped and their toenails painted and get sprayed all over with that stinking perfume stuff. Perfume gives me a headache and stops up my nose.

  Anyway, that spring pool wasn’t as refreshing as the sewer would have been, but I managed to cool myself down and satisfy my thirst. I wallered around in it for ten or fifteen minutes, and when I was ready to get out, I noticed that I had some company.

  Those buzzards that had been floating around the rim of the canyon had dropped in for a visit, two of ’em. They were perched on the ground near the edge of the pool, staring at me.

  I showed ’em some fangs right away. I mean, I try to be friendly and all of that, but there’s just something about a buzzard that don’t sit right with me. Maybe it’s because they’re so ugly. Looks ain’t everything in this life, unless you happen to look like a turkey buzzard, and then they’re pretty crucial. It’s hard to be friendly to something that ugly.

  I gave ’em a growl. They bent their necks forward and stared at me. Then Wallace, the older of the two, said, “We thought maybe you was dead.”

  “Thinking gets birds like you in trouble. Run along, I got things to do.”

  They didn’t move, so I stepped out on dry land and shook myself. Throwed water all over Wallace. He dropped his wings and took a couple of steps backward.

  “He ain’t dead, junior. You made a mistake.”

  I tell you, he’s d-d-dead, Pa, I just know he-he-he is.” Junior seemed to have a little studder problem. “When I pick up a s-s-signal, something’s du-du-du-dead. Remember that ground squirrel? I picked him up at five hundred y-y-yards, and what did you su-say?”

  Wallace frowned and squinted one eye. “I don’t recall. What did I say?”

  “You su-su-said I was su-seeing things, seeing things. You said my eyes was h-h-h-hooked up to my b-b-b-b-b-b . . .”

  “Belly, uh, huh, it’s coming back now.”

  “And you s-s-said I didn’t have enough experience and when I g-g-got as old as you, old as you, m-maybe I’d amount to s-s-something.”

  “I was just trying to be optimistic, son, you can’t blame me for that.” Wallace burped and the whole canyon went sour. “Dang, I’m hungry.”

  “I’m t-t-telling you, Pa, he’s du-du-du-dead. I picked up the s-s-signals, signals.”

  They moved a little closer and looked me over real careful. “Junior, if he’s dead, how come he crawled out of that water hole?”

  “Bu-beats me.”

  “And how come his eyes are open and he’s looking back at us?”

  “Bu-beats me, but he’s dead.”

  “Maybe so, son. I never claimed to know everything.”

  “You du-did too, yesterday m-m-morning.”

  “All right, all right, I take it back. Hey!” His head shot up in the air. “I’m starting to pick up the signals now. He is dead, you’re right!”

  “Told you s-s-so.”

  They came toward me. I watched ’em and lifted my lip on the right side.

  “Whoa, Junior, hold it, son! Did you see that lip go up? Did you see them teeth? Look there, son, see what I’m saying?”

  Junior stretched out his skinny neck and studied me for a minute. “That d-don’t mean n-nuthin. I’ll p-p-p-prove it, prove it.”

  And with that, Junior marched up and pecked me on top of the head. As you might imagine, I didn’t care for that and I took a snap at Junior and relieved him of a double handful of feathers. The buzzards went running for cover. The old man tripped over a rock, went down, hopped up, and kept going, looking back over his wing the whole time.

  “I told you he wasn’t dead!”

  “But Pa . . .”

  “I told you once, I told you twice, I told you three times!”

  “But Pa . . .”

  “You’re gonna keep fooling around and get us hurt one of these days.”

  “But Pa . . . what’s that around his neck?”

  “Huh?” They were back to looking at me again.

  “That’s where the s-s-signal’s coming from, that thing around his n-n-n-n-n, under his chin.”

  Old Wallace’s eyes popped open and a smile came over his beak. “I believe you’re right, son. It’s a chicken head!” Wallace put on a pleasant face (for a buzzard) and came waddling over to me. “Hi there. You new around here?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m Wallace, this here’s Junior, and we was just . . . what would you take for that chicken head?”

  “What you got?”

  They went into a huddle, then the old man said, “Tell you what, neighbor, times are hard right now. My eyes is going bad on me and Junior’s a little on the simple-minded side of things, and we haven’t had a good meal in three days. We sure are hungry and we sure could use a chicken head right now, till our luck changes. We’d have to take it on credit, is the long and short of it.”

  “We’d d-do you a fu-fu-fu-favor sometime, sometime.”

  Wallace nodded his head. “Yes we would, we surely would, because we never forget a good deed.”

  I thought it over. Seemed to me that trading a stinking chicken head for a buzzard’s good will was about an even swap. You couldn’t take either one of them to the bank.

  “Tell you what, boys, if you can chew the string in half, I’ll let you have the head.”

  Their eyes lit up and Junior started toward me, only the old man slapped him across the mouth with his wing. “I’ll handle this. You just stand by for further orders.”

  Wallace waddled over and squinted at the string. He leaned out his neck and took a bite, got my ear instead of the string. I yelped and jumped away.

  “I’m sorry, dang I’m sorry. It’s my eyes. Let me try again.”

  “All right, try again, but leave the ear where it sits.”

  He tried again, and this time he found the string and chewed it in half. Just as soon as the head hit the ground, Junior made a dive for it, swooped it up in his beak, and ran off.

  The old man went after him, flapping his wings and stumbling over rocks and things. “Junior, you come back here! Junior!”

  They fought over it for five minutes. First Junior had it, then Wallace had it, then they got so busy fighting that it fell to the ground. A chicken hawk swooped down and picked it up, and that was the last they ever saw of their supper.

  That stopped the fight. “See what you done!” Wallace squawked.

  “You d-d-done it cause you’re so g-g-greedy, greedy.”

  It was about dark by this time, so I found me a comfortable spot and curled up for the night. Junior and Wallace argued back and forth for another hour, until at last they shut up and we had some peace and quiet. I was drifting off to sleep when I heard Junior’s voice.

  “P-Pa?”

  “What?”

  “I’m h-hungry.”

  “You oughta be, after the way you acted.”

  Silence. “P-Pa?”

  “What!”

  “You ever eat a d-d-dog?”

  I raised my head. “The first son of a buck that comes creeping around me in the night is gonna get his legs tore off, one by one.”

  Didn’t hear another sound out of them birds for the rest of the night, and they didn’t stay for breakfast.

  Chapter Seven: True Love

  Actually there wasn’t any breakfast. And then there wasn’t any lunch. Along toward the middle of the afternoon, it occurred to me that if I wanted to eat, I would have to get out and hustle some grub.

  I left camp and lit out north, figuring I would scout the head of the canyon. I hadn’t gone very far when I stopped dead in my tracks. I heard something, kind of a clanking sound.

  I slipped behind a bush and studied the country ahead. I kept hearing that sound but I couldn’t see what was causing it. Then my sharp cowdog eyes picked up some movement.

 
At first glance it appeared to be a medium sized, bushy-tailed dog stumbling around without a head. Well, that didn’t make sense. I’m not so easily fooled. My years of security work told me that there was more to this thing, so I decided to investigate.

  A dog without a head? I didn’t believe it.

  I moved closer and pieced together the following details:

  1) The subject wasn’t a dog. He was a coyote, age approximately three years and five months, weight thirty-seven pounds, length (including tail) forty-three inches.

  2) He was not a he. He was a she, meaning a female of the species, rather homely, as coyotes tend to be, but not without charm.

  3) Subject had stuck her head into a Hawaiian Punch can with the top cut out. The can had lodged around her ears and gotten stuck there, leaving her blind and helpless.

  One of the first rules you learn as a cowdog is that cowdogs and coyotes don’t mix. They’re natural enemies, the former devoted to the protection of home, livestock, and civilization, the latter de­voted to a dissolute style of life based on raiding, depredation, and uncivilized forms of behavior.

  In other words, I had every reason to walk away and leave the coyote to her fate—a slow, lingering death. In this business you can’t be sentimental.

  Still, death inside a Hawaiian Punch can seemed too cruel even for a coyote. I just couldn’t walk away and leave her to die, even though I had a feeling that if I helped her, I would regret it.

  “Afternoon, ma’am. My name’s Hank the Cowdog. Appears to me that you’re in distress.”

  When she heard my voice, she bristled and tried to run away. Didn’t go far, though, ran into a rock. She stopped, lay flat on the ground, and didn’t move.

  I recognized this as the natural sneaky reaction of the coyote breed. When you catch them red-handed, if they can’t run away, they’ll lie flat on the ground. I suppose they think they’re blending into the surroundings. It’s hard to say what they think. Coyotes are different.

  “You don’t need to be afraid, ma’am. I’m here to help you.” She didn’t say a word or move a muscle. “Lie still and I’ll see if I can get that thing off your head.”