The Original Adventures of Hank the Cowdog (2 page)

Chapter Two: Quills - Just Part of the Job

I
t 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.

At last he saw them. We were down at the corral. He shook his head and muttered, “Hank, when are you going to learn about porcupines? How many times do we have to go through this? Drover never gets quills in his nose.”

Well, Drover was a little chicken and Loper just didn't understand. Nobody understood.

He got a pair of fencing pliers out of the saddle shed, threw a leg lock on me, and started pulling. It hurt. Oh it hurt! Felt like he was pulling off my whole nose. But I took it without a whimper—well, maybe I whimpered a little bit—and we got 'er done.

Loper rubbed me behind the ears. “There, now try to stay away from porcupines.” He stood up and started to dust off his jeans when he noticed the wet spot.

His eyes came up and they looked kind of wrathful. “Did you do that?”

I was well on my way to tall timber when he threw the pliers at me.

I couldn't help it. I didn't do it on purpose. The quills just got to hurting so bad that I had to let something go. Was it my fault that he had me in a leg lock and got in the way?

Make one little mistake around this ranch and they nail you to the wall.

I laid low for a while, hid in the post pile and nursed my nose. It was about ten o'clock when Sally May discovered the murdered hen.

Chapter Three: An Enormous Monster

I
debated for a long time about what to do next.

Should I hide out and play it safe, or go on down to the chickenhouse and get blamed for something that wasn't my fault?

Curiosity got the best of me and I trotted down to see what was going on.

Drover was already there when I arrived, wagging his stub tail and trying to win a few points with his loyal dog routine. I walked up to him and said, out of the corner of my mouth, “Thanks for all the help this morning. I really appreciate it.”

I think he missed the note of irony, because he said—and I mean with a straight face—he said, “That's okay, Hankie, it wasn't nothing.”

Dang right it wasn't nothing.

Loper was kneeling over the hen, studying the signs. Sally May stood nearby, looking mighty unhappy about the dead chicken. Loper pushed his hat to the back of his head and stood up. His eyes went straight to me and Drover, only when I glanced around, I noticed that Drover had disappeared. It was just me, standing in the spotlight.

“Hank, if you hadn't been out barking all night, you might have prevented this. Why do you think we keep you around here?” I hung my head and tucked my tail. “Do you have any idea how much money it costs to keep you dogs around here? Seems that every time I turn around I'm having to buy another fifty-pound sack of dog food. That stuff's expensive.”

Maybe this ain't the time or place to argue the point, but just for the record let me say that Co-op dog food is the cheapest you can buy. I don't know what they make it out of, hulls, straw, sawdust, anything the pigs won't eat, and then they throw in a little grease to give it a so-called flavor. Tastes like soap and about half the time it gives me an upset stomach.

The point is, I wasn't exactly eating the ranch into bankruptcy. Thought I ought to throw that in to give a more balanced view of things.

Loper went on. “We can't afford to keep you dogs around here if you're going to let this sort of thing go on. Everybody has to earn his keep on the ranch. I don't want this to happen again.”

What did he suppose
I
wanted? Sometimes I just don't understand . . . oh well.

He picked up the dead chicken by the feet and carried it down to the trash barrel. I got to admit that I watched this with some interest, since it had occurred to me that there wasn't much any of us could do for the dead chicken.

The more I thought about chicken dinner, the more my mouth watered. Couldn't get it off my mind. I like chicken about as well as any food you can name. Has a nice clean taste except for the feathers. Feathers are pretty tasteless, if you ask me, and they kind of scrape when they go down.

Sure was hungry for chicken, but I decided against it. Wouldn't look too good if I got caught eating the murder victim, after all the trouble I'd gotten into that day.

I tried to concentrate on the scene of the crime. I studied it again, went over the ground and sniffed it out. Nothing, no clues, no tracks, no scent. Could have been a coyote, a coon, a skunk, a badger, even a fox.

But there was one thing I was sure of. It wouldn't happen again, not while I was in charge of security, not as long as I could still stand up and fight for the ranch.

I saw Drover peek his head out of the machine shed. “Get some sleep, son,” I told him. “Tonight we throw up a double guard, and we could get ourselves into some combat.”

We slept till dark. When the moon came up, we went out on patrol, made several laps around headquarters. Everything was quiet. Off in the distance we heard a few coyotes, but they weren't anywhere close.

Must have been after midnight when Drover said his feet hurt, he wanted to rest a while. I left him in front of the chickenhouse and told him to sound the alarm if he saw anything unusual. I went on down and checked things at the corral, made the circle around the place, and ended up back at the chickenhouse about half an hour later.

Thought I'd drop in unannounced and check on Drover, make sure he was taking care of business. As I sneaked up, I could see him in the moonlight. His ears were perked. He'd take about two steps and pounce on something with his front paws. Then he'd take two more steps and pounce again.

He wasn't paying a lick of attention to the chickenhouse. A guy could have driven a truck in there, loaded up all the hens, and been gone before Drover ever got the news.

I walked up behind him. “What are you doing?”

He screeched and headed for the machine shed. I called him back. He came out, looking all around with big eyes. “Is that you, Hank?”

“Uh-huh. What were you doing?”

“Me? Oh nuthin'.”

It was then that I saw the toad frog jump. “Playing with a toad frog? On guard duty? When we got a murderer running around loose?”

He hung his head and went to wagging that stub tail of his. “I got bored, Hank.”

“Sit down, son, me and you need to have a serious talk.” He sat down and I marched back and forth in front of him. “Drover, I'm really disappointed in you. When you came to this ranch, you said you wanted to be a cowdog. I had misgivings at the time. I mean, you didn't look like a cowdog. But I took you on anyway and tried to teach you the business. Can you imagine how it breaks my heart to come up here and find you playing with a dad-gummed toad frog?”

His head sank lower and lower, and he started to sniffle.

“If you had gone into any other line of work, playing with a frog would be all right, but a cowdog is something special. You might say we're the elite. We have to be stronger, braver, and tougher than any brand of dog in the world. It's a special calling, Drover, it ain't for the common run of mutts.”

He started crying.

“Drover, there's only one thing that keeps you from being a good cowdog.”

“What is it, Hank?”

“You're worthless.”

“Oh no,” he squalled, “don't say it! It hurts too much.”

“But it's true. I've tried to be patient, I've tried to teach you, I've tried to be a good example.”

“I know.”

“But it hasn't worked. You're just as worthless today as you were the first time I saw you.”

“Oh-h-h!”

“You're just a chickenhearted little mutt, is what you are, and I don't think you'll ever make a cowdog.”

“Yes I will, Hank, I just need some time.”

“Nope. Duty's duty. I got no choice but to let you go.”

He broke down and sobbed. “Oh Hank, I got no place to go, no friends, no family. Nobody wants a chickenhearted mutt. Give me just three more chances.”

“Can't do it, Drover, sorry.”

“Two more?”

“Nope.”

“One more?”

I paced back and forth. It was one of the most difficult decisions of my career and I didn't want to rush into it.

“All right, one more chance. But one more dumb stunt and you're finished, and I mean forever. Now dry your eyes, shape up, pay attention to your business, and concentrate on being unworthless.”

“Okay, Hank.” He started jumping up and down and going around in circles. “You won't be sorry. No more frogs for me. I'll guard that chickenhouse and give my life if necessary.”

“That's the spirit. I'm going to make the rounds again. If you see anything suspicious, give a holler.”

I started off on my rounds and left him sitting in front of the chickenhouse door. I was down at the feed room, checking for coons, when I heard him sound the alarm.

I turned on my incredible speed and went tearing up the hill. I have several speeds, don't you see: slow, normal, and incredible. I save the last one back for special emergencies. When I turn on the incredible speed, I appear as a streak of color moving across the ground. Anything that gets in my way is knocked aside, often destroyed, and I'm not talking about little stuff either. I mean trees, posts, big rocks, you name it.

As I was streaking up the hill, I met Drover.

“Hank, I seen him, he's up there, my gosh!”

I had to slow down. “Give me a description.”

“Big, Hank, and I mean
BIG,
huge, enormous. Black and white, gigantic tail that whishes through the air, long pointed tongue that flicks out at you, and horns growing out of his head.”

“Good grief,” I whispered, “what is it?”

“It's a
monster,
Hank, a gen-u-wine monster!”

I stopped to think it over. I'd never tangled with a monster before. “You think I can whip him?”

“I don't know, Hank. But if anybody can, it's you.”

“You're right. Okay, here's the plan. I'll go in the first wave, make the first contact. We'll hold you in reserve. If I holler for help, you come running, get in there with them teeth of yours and bite something. Got that?”

“I got it.”

I took a deep breath. “And Drover, if I don't come back from this one, you'll have to go on alone. Take care of the ranch and be brave.”

It was kind of a touching moment, me and Drover standing there in the moonlight just before the big battle. I said good-bye and loped up the hill.

I stopped and peered into the gloom. At first I couldn't see anything, but then my eyes fell on a huge shadowy thing standing right in front of the chickenhouse door.

Drover hadn't exaggerated. It was a horned monster, all right, and he was fixing to bust down the door and start killing chickens. I didn't have a moment to waste. It was now or never, him or me, glory or death. I bared my fangs and attacked.

First contact was made only a matter of seconds after I launched the attack. The monster must have heard me coming, cause he kicked the tar out of me and sent me rolling. I leaped up and charged again but this time I made it through, sank my teeth into him and gave him a ferocious bite. He slung me around, but I hung on.

He was big, all right, big as a house. I figgered he stood, oh, fourteen feet tall at the shoulder, had three eyes, a long forked tongue, and a tail with deadly stingers on the end of it, also horns that glowed in the dark. And tusks. Did I mention that? Big long tusks growing out of the side of his mouth, the kind that could rip a dog to shreds. Green slobber dripped out of his mouth and his eyes were red.

It was a fight to the death. “Come on, Drover, attack!” I set up a howl to alert the house. I would need all the help I could get.

I'll give Drover credit. He came tearing out of the weeds, yapping at the top of his lungs, and got within three feet of the monster before he veered off and headed for the machine shed.

The lights came on down at the house. The door slammed and I heard Loper running toward me. I hoped he had the gun. I was getting beat up and tired. I wasn't sure I could keep up the fight much longer.

The gun exploded, lit up the night. The monster ran and I started after him, ready to give him the
coop de grass,
as we say, but Loper called me back. I figgered he didn't want to risk losing the Head of Ranch Security, which seemed pretty sensible to me.