The Case of the Shipwrecked Tree
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The Case of the Shipwrecked Tree
John R. Erickson
Illustrations by Gerald L. Holmes
Maverick Books, Inc.
Publication Information
MAVERICK BOOKS
Published by Maverick Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 549, Perryton, TX 79070
Phone: 806.435.7611
www.hankthecowdog.com
First published in the United States of America by Viking Children’s Books and Puffin Books, members of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2003.
Currently published by Maverick Books, Inc., 2012
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Copyright © John R. Erickson, 2003
All rights reserved
Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-141-4
Hank the Cowdog® is a registered trademark of John R. Erickson.
Printed in the United States of America
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Dedication
For Rooster and Jody.
Contents
Chapter One We Learn about the Turkey Rebellion
Chapter Two Murphy the Spy
Chapter Three We Capture the Mailman
Chapter Four A Pirate Comes Out of the House
Chapter Five Attacked by a Whole Gang of Pirates
Chapter Six We Run for Our Lives!
Chapter Seven The Bubble-Gum Adventure
Chapter Eight I Try to Do Business with the Cat
Chapter Nine Help!
Chapter Ten The Rescue Mission Fails
Chapter Eleven Just What We Needed: Buzzards
Chapter Twelve Does It End Happily or in Tragedy?
Chapter One: We Learn about the Turkey Rebellion
It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. The Case of the Shipwrecked Tree began in the spring of the year, as I recall. Yes, of course it did. Drover and I never would have joined up with a pirate captain in the wintertime, because, well, who wants to make an ocean voyage when it’s cold? Not me.
But that came after we got the news about the Turkey Rebellion. Have we discussed that? Maybe not. It was a pretty scary deal . . . but maybe we’d better slow down and take things one at a time.
Okay, it was spring. Warm days, chilly nights, spring foliage on all the trees. The buzzards, kites, sparrows, and cardinals had returned to the ranch after spending the winter . . . somewhere. Down south, I suppose.
Why do they leave every fall? I have no idea. Ask a bird. I consider it a huge waste of time and effort. Come spring, they just turn around and fly right back. Dumb birds.
What’s the point? If they don’t like it around here, why do they keep coming back, and if they do like it here, why do they always leave? It makes no sense to me, but let me hasten to point out that I’m not a bird. Maybe you had already noticed that.
Where were we? Oh yes. Birds. Every year in the fall, our summer birds leave and fly south. We don’t know why and we don’t care, but some birds stay here over the winter. One type of bird that stays on the ranch year-round is the wild turkey.
Most of the time, your wild turkeys are okay birds. They don’t bother me and I don’t bother them. They run in flocks, roost in cottonwood trees, and steal grain from the horses, which is fine with me because I’m not fond of horses. However—
There’s always a “however,” isn’t there? I had never supposed that our local turkey population might be involved in a sophisticated spying operation until . . .
It all began in the early morning hours, as I recall. I was sitting at my desk in the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex beneath the gas tanks, going over some files and reports. I had hardly slept in days, I mean, the routine of running the ranch had kept me up day and night for so long, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d grabbed a nap.
You might say I was “off duty,” but that doesn’t mean much. In this line of work, there is no “off duty.” If we’re not working traffic on the county road or guarding the chicken house or checking out enemy spies, we’re back at the office, reading reports.
That’s what I was doing—slumped over my desk and reading a Monster Report, #MR-1055327—when all at once, Drover came bursting in.
“Hank, come quick! The wild turkeys are coming right up to the gas tanks! I tried to bark ’em away, but one of ’em pecked me on the nose.”
“Hose nose snorking mork beetlebomb.”
“I thought you’d want to know, and maybe you’d better wake up.”
“I can’t wake up, Drivel, because I’m not asniggle.”
“Yeah, you are asleep. I can tell, ’cause you’re stretched out on your gunnysack and your eyes are closed. You can’t fool me.”
I turned toward the sound of his voice and tried to beam him a gaze of purest steel, but the office was totally dark and I couldn’t see him. “Churn on the lice, Droving, I’m having trouble bubble guttersniping the hogwash.”
“I’m right here, if you’ll just open your eyes.”
Suddenly, I realized that something was wrong, badly wrong. I leaped to my feet, staggered three steps to the north, and collapsed again. “Holy strokes, Dobber, I’ve been blinded! I fought them off as long as I could, but the turkeys kept coming for our pork chops!”
“My name’s Drover.”
Suddenly my eyes . . . hmmm, my eyes popped open, almost as though they’d been closed, and all at once I saw light and objects and . . . hmmm, a smallish white dog with a stub tail. “Who are you and why are you honking the catfish bait?”
“Well . . . I’m not sure about that, but I’m Drover. Remember me? I’m your best friend.”
I blinked my eyes and struggled to my feet. “Yes, of course. How badly am I hurt?”
He gave me a foolish grin. “Well . . . I don’t think you’re hurt at all. I think maybe you were asleep and you’re not awake yet.”
I staggered two steps to the west. The bleeding had stopped and my legs seemed to be working. “For your information, I was not asleep. I was reading a monster report and . . .” I shot a glance over my shoulder. “Wait a second. You’re Drover, aren’t you? Welcome back, son. How was Cowabonga? You went on a trip, right?”
“Not me. I’ve been here forever.”
“Just as I thought.” I blinked my eyes and shook the vapors out of my head. My mind began to climb back into the driver’s seat of my . . . something. “Okay, Drover, I’m beginning to see a pattern here. I was reading files and reports, and something caused me to lose consciousness.”
“Yeah, you fell asleep.”
“It wasn’t that simple, Drover. There’s always more. These things are never as simple as we think.”
“I’ll be derned.”
I began pacing, as I often do when my mind is beginning to focus like a laser bean. “My guess is that they broke into the office and sprinkled sleeping powder on those files. How else can you explain my sudden loss of consciousness?”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“They, Drover, our enemies. They’re clever beyond your wildest dreams, and they have agents and spies at work around the clock. Have you seen any strangers in the last two hours?”
“Well, let me think. Oh yeah, I s
aw some turkeys, and that’s what I came to tell you. There are some turkeys lurking around the gas tanks.”
I stopped pacing and pondered his words. “Turkeys lurking? Drover, this is just a hunch, but I have a feeling that there’s some hidden meaning behind those words. Did you notice that they rhyme?”
His eyes lit up. “Yeah, and you know what else? If one of the turkeys was named Murphy, it would rhyme even better: Murphy Turkey Lurking.”
“Drover, please try to be . . .” I ran those words back and forth through my mind. “Murphy Turkey Lurking. Hmmm. You know, you might have stumbled onto something important. Those three words have a very suspicious ring, almost as though they were meant to go together.”
“Yeah, and I came up with ’em all by myself.”
“Don’t get carried away, son. This is just the tip of the ice pick. The question we must ask ourselves now is ‘Why are the turkeys lurking?’ Is it possible that they’re plotting a rebellion?”
“Well, let’s see here . . .”
“And who is this Murphy character?”
“Well . . .” Drover rolled his eyes around. “You don’t reckon he might be . . . a spy, do you?”
I glared at the runt. “A spy? Don’t be absurd. Turkeys are harmless birds, and also they’re not very smart. Nobody would recruit a turkey to be a spy. In other words, no. Your theory doesn’t cut water.”
“Oh drat.” His face fell into a heap of wrinkles, but then he brightened. “Wait a second. What if he’s not a turkey at all, but he’s a spy . . . wearing a turkey suit?”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Drover, sometimes you say the craziest—a spy wearing a turkey suit? Ha, ha! Why, that’s . . .” I gave it some thought. “On the other hand, it would be clever, wouldn’t it? I mean, nobody would ever suspect . . . it’s just the sort of trick “they” might come up with. Of course! A Turkey Rebellion! You know, Drover, you might have just blown this case wide open.”
All at once he was hopping up and down. “Oh goodie, I’m so happy!”
“But once again, we can’t allow ourselves to get carried away. For you see, Drover, our work on this case has just begun.” I shot a glance at the wild turkeys. All at once they looked very suspicious. “We need a volunteer.”
His smile faded. “Oops. You mean . . .”
“Yes, Drover, you’ve been chosen, out of all the dogs in the world, to volunteer for a very important mission.”
“Well, you know, I’d love to volunteer, but this old leg sure has—”
“It’s a great opportunity, son. It’ll give you a chance to prove who you really are.”
“Yeah, but I already know. I’m the one who’s scared of turkeys.”
“Rubbish. Turkeys are harmless. Now listen carefully.” I glanced over my shoulders and dropped my voice to a hoist . . . to a whisper, let us say. “Go back out there and infilterate their group. Be polite, turn on your charm, get to know them and win their confidence. Listen to their conversation and try to determine which one is Murphy the Spy. When you get a positive ID, come back and we’ll plan our next move.”
“Well . . . if you really think I can do it. Should I pretend that I’m a turkey?”
“No, I don’t think that would work. Your legs are too short, and you’ve got a stub tail. Just pretend you’re a dog—a dog who wants to get to know a few turkeys.”
“I think I can do it, ’cause I really am a dog.”
“Right. Good luck, soldier. I’ll stay here at Command Central and man the rodeo.”
“You mean the radio?”
“That’s what I said. I’ll stay here and man the radio.”
“Yeah, but you’re not a man.”
“All right, Drover, I’ll stay here and dog the radio. Now get moving. We’ll meet back here at oh-eight hundred.”
“Okay, here I go!”
I watched as he went skipping away—a happy little dog who had found a place for himself in the big wide world. I felt a glow of fatherly pride, knowing that I had helped bring a small ray of meaning into the garbage heap of his life.
Then he disappeared from sight and I was alone again—alone with my thoughts and the mementos of a long and glorious career, alone in the echoing chambers of the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex. I heaved a sigh and returned to the grinding routine of . . . snork murk snickelfritz . . .
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
Chapter Two: Murphy the Spy
I fought sleep as long as I could, but there are two powerful forces in this world that a dog can’t resist. The first is sleep, and I don’t remember the second one.
So, yes, my struggle against the forces of sleep was doomed to fail, and after minutes and minutes of fighting to stay awake, I must have slipped the surly bonds of Life and sailed out into the misty harbor of delicious sleep.
It was wonderful! All the weeks and weeks of sleepless nights, all the cares and worries of running the Security Division, all the frayed nerves and knotted muscles melted away like . . . something. Mothballs in a pouring rain, I suppose, or maybe snowballs in a pouring rain.
Sugar cubes in a cup of hot tea.
Graham crackers in a glass of milk.
They all melted away, is the point, and there for a few moments, I felt myself . . . Suddenly a voice cut through the silence.
“Hi Hank, I’m back.”
I jacked myself up to a sitting position and began the backbreaking process of cranking open my eyelids. There stood Drover—grinning, happy, and dumb. And wigwagging his stub tail. “Werewolfs wear rumple buckets—you just left. How could you be back so snooze?”
“Well, I made friends with the turkeys and got ’em to tell me everything.”
“Talkies? What are you turking about?”
“Turkeys, wild turkeys. See, you sent me on an important mission to incinerate the turkeys, and I did and now I’m back.”
“Yes, of course. Be still a minute and let me think. And stop wagging your tail. It hurts my ears.” I walked several steps away and filled my lungs with carbon diego. My private moments were over. I had been pulled back into the world of worry, care, and responsibility. I walked back toward the little runt. “All right, Drover, I’m ready to hear your report.”
“Gosh, did you fall asleep again?”
“No, I did not. I was merely . . . give me your report on the turkey spies. Did you find Murphy?”
He sat down and started scratching his ear. “Oh yeah, I spotted him right away. He was the one who looked just like a turkey.”
“So we were right, weren’t we? He came onto the ranch in that turkey costume and thought we’d never notice. Ha! What a foolish spy. Why are you scratching your ear?”
“Oh, because it itches . . . I guess. And it feels better when I scratch it.”
“I would be grateful if you’d scratch on your own time. Scratching in public is rude and uncouth.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Go on with your report. Did you hear any of their plans? What is Murphy up to? Surely he came here on some kind of devilish mission.”
“Oh yeah, I heard ’em talking, and I think Murphy came here on some kind of . . .” He paused for a moment. “. . . devilish mission.”
Those words sent a shock all the way out to the end of my tail, but I tried to conceal it. “I’m not surprised, Drover. That’s exactly what I had feared and expected. Okay.” I began pacing back and forth in front of him. “Let’s get down to pacifics. Tell me everything you know.”
“Well, let’s see. It’s a big ocean and it’s over by California.”
“Ocean, California. Got it. Go on.”
“It’s full of salt and seaweed and . . . and jellyfish.”
“Jellyfish, huh? This is getting interesting. Jellyfish have poison stingers, you know. Is it possible that Murphy has devel
oped some kind of new high-tech weapon that fires jellyfish instead of bullets? They’re very slippery, you know.”
“Yeah, they’re made of jelly.”
“The spies, Drover. Spies are very slippery characters.”
“Boy, I love jelly.”
“Exactly. Well, this is pretty scary, Drover. You actually heard the turkeys discussing this new jellyfish technology?”
“Well . . . I’m not sure about that.”
I stopped pacing and studied the runt. “Did you or not? If you didn’t, why are we discussing jellyfish?”
He rolled his eyes around. “Well, I was kind of wondering that myself. You wanted me to talk about the ocean and . . . well, I couldn’t think of anything to say, but I figured jellyfish live in the ocean. I guess.”
“Drover, is this some kind of pathetic attempt at humor? If it is, I must warn you that the punishment for making jokes during a briefing is very severe.”
“Maybe I heard you wrong.”
I began pacing again. “In that case, we’ll disregard all references to the bogus jellyfish technology and plunge on with your report. What I’m looking for, Drover, is specific information. Details.”
“I got de-tailed when I was a pup, and I’ve had a stub ever since.”
“I’m not interested in your stub tail.”
“Neither am I, but I have to wear it every day.”
“Drover, does your stub tail relate to this particular Turkey Report? If not, then let’s move along.”
“Well, when I’m out with a bunch of turkeys, I always notice that they’ve got beautiful tails made of feathers, and mine’s just a stub. It makes me feel like I’ve got . . .” A quiver came into his voice. “. . . an inferior tail.”
I stopped pacing and turned slowly to face him. “Drover, you do have an inferior tail. It’s not a feeling or an illusion. It’s a fact. You’ll never have a beautiful feathered turkey tail, and the sooner you accept yourself as you really are, the quicker you’ll be. Now, can we get on with this briefing?”