“Sure have, Hank, and I’m bored.”
“Don’t worry about it. Anybody who had spent the last half-hour with you would have been bored.”
“So it’s not just me?”
“Not at all. It’s a perfectly natural reaction. But let me remind you, Drover, that this was punishment. I didn’t send you down here to be frivolous.”
“What does ‘frillivous’ mean?”
“The word is frivolous, and it means silly, un-businesslike, unprofessional, greedy, self-centered, disrespectful, discourteous, disobedient, irreverent, and basically stupid.”
“Gosh, that’s quite a word.”
“Indeed it is, and it wouldn’t hurt you to remember it.”
“Yeah, and then I wouldn’t forget it.”
“Exactly. I think you’ll find, Drover, that a few fancy words, sprinkled here and there into your sentences, would help break the monogamy of your conversation.”
“Gosh. What happens when you break your mahogany?”
“You either fix it or it stays broke.”
“Don’t they paint mahogany sometimes?”
“Sometimes they do, but plywood is much cheaper. How did we get on the subject of plywood?”
“I don’t know. We were talking about big words.”
“Yes, that’s true. Plywood is a big word, Drover, and you should try to sprinkle it into your conversation more often. Who knows, you might fool someone.”
“Okay. You seen any plywood this morning?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just trying to fool you.”
I couldn’t help chuckling at that. “Drover, if you really and truly want to fool Hank the Cowdog, you should bring camping gear, because it could take you weeks or even months. Now, where were we?”
“Plywood.”
“Exactly. Plywood. Hmmm. I seem to have lost my train of thought.”
“Can I take my nose out of the corner now?”
“Negative, unless you can pass a very thorough and difficult examination, and I have my doubts about that.”
“Oh gosh. I’ve got a crick in my neck from holding my nose in the corner.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Drover, but I hope you understand that crickets have no bearing on this case. It doesn’t matter how many crickets you’ve seen, or think you’ve seen. No amount of crickets can excuse your behavior.”
“Hank, I’ve been down here so long, I don’t even remember what I did.”
“You stole my scrambled eggs and left me with nothing to eat but two pieces of burned toast and half a gallon of poisoned bacon grease.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And I, being a kind and trusting soul, ate them and came within inches of dying a horrible death. All because of your greedy and selfish behavior. I hope you’re ashamed of yourself.”
“I hope so too, ’cause I sure want to get out of here.”
“Are you ready to take your examination?”
“Oh, I guess—if you promise not to make it too hard.”
“I’m not in a position to promise anything, Drover, except that you will get a fair trial.”
“Does that mean we can’t cheat?”
“That’s exactly what it means. Cheaters never win, Drover, and chinners never weep. Are you ready for the first question?”
“I guess so.”
“All right, here is the first question, which is also the only question. Should you fail to answer the question, you will be confined to your room for the rest of your life. In other words, don’t choke under the pressure.”
He made an odd sound, as though he were choking on something.
“Ready? Here we go. All right, Drover, what was it that I told you to repeat five hundred times?”
“It was a sentence. One sentence.”
“That is correct. Now, repeat that alleged sentence, word for word.”
“Can you give me a hint?”
“No. I’m not allowed to give any help whatsoever.”
“I bet you forgot too.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Was it something about zebras?”
“No. Chickens.”
“Oh yeah, I remember now. Here we go: Don’t count your chickens before they cross the road.”
“Incorrect. I’ll give you one last chance.”
“Oh darn.” He thought about it. “Okay, I’ve got it now: A chicken in the pot is worth three birds in the bush.”
“No. One last chance.”
He rolled his eyes and twisted his face around. “Okay, let’s try this one: If you eat scrambled eggs for breakfast, the chickens will come home to roost.”
“That’s close, Drover, but I’m afraid . . .”
All at once he started jumping up and down and whirling around in circles. “Oh Hank, I’ve got it now, I’ve got it!”
“Get your nose back in the corner. You haven’t passed the test yet.” He did as he was told. “All right, settle down, relax, get control of yourself. For the absolute last time, what is the answer?”
“The answer is: Only a chicken would lay an egg on the head of a friend. That’s it, Hank! I got it!”
I ran that answer through my data banks. It checked out.
“Congratulations, Drover. You’ve passed the examination and you’re now a free dog.”
“Boy, that was tough.”
“Yes, but I don’t need to remind you that when the going gets tough . . .” Suddenly, I heard a whinny. “Did you just whinny?”
“When?”
“No, whinny.”
“Whinny?”
“Just now. I could have sworn that I heard a . . .” There it was again. “Yes, I did hear a whinny.”
Drover rolled his eyes around. “I didn’t know weenies could talk.”
“Not a weenie, you dunce. A WHINNY, the sound a horse makes.”
“Oh. No, it wasn’t me.”
“I know that, Drover.”
“Then how come you asked?”
“Because . . . never mind. The point is that my very sensitive ears have picked up the sound of a horse in the home pasture.”
“I didn’t think there were any horses in the home pasture.”
“Exactly my point.” I pushed myself up on all-fours. “And that means, Drover, that we have a new case to investigate: The Case of the Mysterious Whinny in the Home Pasture. Come on, we’d better check this thing out.”
And with that, we went dashing away from the comfort and security of the gas tanks, on a course that would take us into a new adventure—and no small amount of danger.
Chapter Seven: Tuerto, the One-Eyed Killer Stud Horse
I don’t get along well with horses, just don’t like em and never have.
For one thing, horses have this snooty, superior attitude. They seem to think they’re just a little better than the rest of us. I could take you over to the horse pasture right this minute and show you several horses that fit that description: Casey, Happy, Popeye, Deuce, Calipso, Frisco, Sinbad, Macho, Chief, Bonny Bonita, and that smart-alecky little Cookie mare.
Even Lightning, the Shetland pony, thinks he’s hot stuff.
What is particularly galling about horses is that, given the slightest opportunity, they will chase a dog. In other words, they not only pretend to be superior, but they will try to prove it.
If there’s anything more annoying than pretense, it’s reality. And anything that weighs a thousand pounds and bites, kicks, and stomps must be considered reality.
We cowdogs are trained in the techniques of gathering, herding, and moving livestock, don’t you see. These techniques are accepted and respected by cattle, sheep, goats, chickens, and hogs.
In other words, we can do business with those animals. We may not like each other, b
ut we all play by the same rules. When we dogs go to the pasture, we don’t have to invent a new game every time.
But horses? No sir. They won’t play the game. They make up their own game and their own rules. And they cheat. Anyway, I don’t get much of a kick out of fooling with horses.
Or, to put it another way, I often get a kick out of fooling with horses, and those kicks hurt.
Anyways, I made visual contact only moments after we swooped past the front gate and zoomed out into the pasture.
“Mayday, mayday! Drover, I’m picking up a horse at ten o’clock!”
“What are you going to put him in?”
“What?”
“And we’re already an hour late.”
“No no, you don’t understand. In combat situations, we switch over to combat terminology.”
“Oh.”
“Imagine that the enemy is standing on a giant clock.” (I had to explain all this while we were running.)
“Okay.”
“The twelve is facing due east, which means that the six is facing due west.”
“And six plus twelve makes eighteen.”
“Roger. Now, the enemy is located where the ten would be, if he were the little hand.”
“He doesn’t look very little to me.”
“Roger. And that’s why we say that we’ve spotted the enemy at ten o’clock.”
“If he’s the little hand, I’d hate to see the big one.”
“Just forget about the hands, Drover, and concentrate on the numbers.”
“I still can’t see any numbers.”
“You’re not supposed to. It’s all imaginary.”
“Is that horse imaginary too?”
“Negative.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Hank, is this an alarm clock?”
“Well, I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”
“I keep hearing alarm bells in my head. Do you see who that horse is?”
I throttled back to an easy gliding pace and squinted my eyes at the alleged horse and . . .
HUH?
You might recall that only hours before, High Loper had told Sally May about the neighbor’s one-lawed out-eyed stud horse—that is, one-eyed outlawed stud horse, a heartless brute named Tuerto.
I had forgotten the conversation myself, else I might not have been so anxious to answer the call and enter the case. For you see, the mysterious whinny had come, not from your ordinary arrogant, cheating, back-stabbing saddle horse, which would have been bad enough—but from that same infamous one-eyed killer, Tuerto.
Had I known that, I might have chosen to explore the far west end of ranch headquarters. Or let’s put it this way: No ordinary dog would have chosen to go into combat against the villain Tuerto.
But then, being ordinary has never been on my agenda, so there you are. And also, it was too late to turn back.
“Hank, my leg’s starting to hurt! I’m losing speed and altitude and attitude and just about everything else!”
“You’re losing courage, is what you’re losing. This is no time to come up lame.”
“I know. It’s already ten o’clock but the machine shed’s back at six o’clock, so maybe I’d better . . .”
“Stay in formation, Drover. We’re going in for a look.”
“I don’t need to go in for a look. I can see all I can stand from here.”
“Hang on, Drover, here we go!”
“Oh, my leg . . .”
We zoomed in for a look. Sure enough, it was Tuerto of the Gotch Eye. When he saw us streaking toward him, he tossed his head and stamped his right front foot. It was pretty clear at this point that he had no business in our home pasture.
“Hank to Drover, over. Confirm visual sighting at eleven o’clock.”
“I thought it was only ten o’clock.”
“Roger, but suspect has moved one hour to the south.”
“Time sure flies when you’re scared.”
“Roger. Suspect has invaded our territorial territory. Prepare to initiate Growling Mode!”
“Hank, let’s don’t growl at him, he might think we’re being unfriendly.”
“That’s the whole point, Roger.”
“I’m Drover.”
“Of course you are. Ready? Mark! We have initiated Growling Mode One and are proceeding toward the target!”
I’m sure that a lot of this technical stuff sounds pretty heavy. I mean, you’ve got your rogers and your modes and your coordinates and your procedures and so forth, and while it may sound complicated, it’s not so bad once you get used to it.
We were pretty muchly following the procedures outlined in Chapter Seven of The Cowdog Manual of Combat. You might want to put that on your list of outside reading and check it out in your spare time.
I had hoped that, once we initiated Growling Mode One, the enemy would take the hint and leave. He didn’t. He continued to stamp his foot and make threatening gestures with his ears, mouth, teeth, and his one good eye.
“Hank to Drover, over. Stand by to initialize Growling Mode Two!”
“Oh my gosh!”
“Ready? Mark! We have initiated Growling Mode Two! Stand by to initialize Barking Mode One.”
“Hank, what’s the difference between ‘initialize’ and ‘initiate’?”
“This is no time to ask questions, Drover. You should have learned all of that in Fight School.”
“Maybe I’d better go back to the machine shed and read . . .”
“Negative on the machine shed. Once you’re in the soup, it’s too late to read the recipe. Stand by to initiate Barking Mode One.”
“You already said that once.”
“No, the first time we initialized. Now we’re fixing to initiate. Stand by.”
“I still don’t understand the difference.”
“Mark and bark! We have initiated Barking Mode One. The enemy should begin showing fear at any moment.”
We barked. Boy howdy, did we bark! Should have scared that horse right out of his skin but . . . well, you might say that he didn’t appear to be in a state of panic. What he did was toss his head and give us a toothy grin.
“Come a leetle closer, leetle duggies, and I weel stomp you eento the dert.”
O-kay, if that’s the way he wanted it, we would have to proceed with the procedure and give him the whole nine yards of Scary and Terrifying Gestures.
“Hank to Drover, over. This is getting serious.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Stand by to lift hair on back of neck and hair on back of back! Ready? Mark! We have hair lift-up.”
“We have a wreck, is what we have.”
“Now stand by to arm tooth-lasers.”
“Tooth-lasers!”
“Roger on the tooth-lasers. Stand by. Ready?”
“No.”
“Mark! We have initialized tooth-lasers! All tooth-lasers armed and ready! Stand by for Attack Mode. Bearing: three-two-zirro-zirro.”
“I thought it was eleven o’clock. Now he says it’s thirty-two. I don’t understand . . .”
Stand by to lock on target! Three-two-one . . . Mark!”
“Drover.”
“Roger.”
“Hank!”
“What?”
“Who are all these people?”
“Never mind. We have locked on Target Tuerto. Stand by for attack! Ready? Charge, banzai!”
Even though I had reason to suspect that Drover wasn’t prepared to carry out his assignment, we initiated the attack. I went in the first wave, leaving Drover to cover my flank and tail.
With my tooth-lasers blazing, I peeled off and went streaking toward Target Tuerto. Was I scared? Maybe, a little. Who wouldn’t be scared of a murdering gotch-eyed stud horse? But I swallered my fear
and went charging into the frey. Fray. Frei. Battle. The attack should have worked. I mean, we must have looked pretty awesome, swooping in on him that way, with all our barking and raised hair and tooth-lasers and everything. Yes, it should have worked. However . . .
I wasn’t exactly prepared for his cunning maneuver. As quick as a snake, he swapped ends and fired two hoof-cannons at me. Fortunately for me and the ranch and the rest of this story, the cannon fire passed on both sides of my head, else I might not have had a head for the next two shots to pass between.
I was struck, not by the cannon fire, but by the futility of attacking a thousand-pound horse who was attacking back. I mean, one hit by them cannons of his and I would have been spitting tooth-lasers instead of using them.
Suddenly an old piece of cowdog wisdom came to mind: “A triumph in battle beats a moral victory, but a moral victory beats a kick in the head.”
I decided to settle for a moral victory.
“Hank to Drover, over. Stand by to initiate Retreat Mode!”
I needn’t have worried about Drover. He had vanished. Under the circumstances, that seemed a pretty good idea.
I initiated the Retreat Mode and also vanished, returning to home base with a moral victory under my belt and a frenzied one-eyed stud horse hot on my trail.
Chapter Eight: Top Secret Material!!!!
Children under Twelve Not Allowed
to Read This Chapter! Caution! Danger!
Do Not Enter! Poison!
Before we go any farther, let’s get something straight.
I try to set a good example for Drover and all the little children who consider cowdogs just a little special. So what I’m getting at is this. If the little children come up to you and ask, “Did Hank the Cowdog really run from Tuerto and hide under Sally May’s car?” I’d be grateful if you’d . . . well, deny it, so to speak.
I mean, there’s lots of ways of fudging on a story without actually . . . there’s a fine line between lying and creating a false impression . . . the little children don’t have to . . . just because we know the truth doesn’t mean . . .
Tell you what let’s do. We’ll label this chapter TOP SECRET and make it off limits to kids under twelve. You might consider stapling the pages together or cutting them out of the book with a pocket knife. But whatever you do, don’t let the kids read it.
The Case of the One-Eyed Killer Stud Horse Page 4