The Original Adventures of Hank the Cowdog

by John R. Erickson

  Next thing I knew, we had slowed down and were coasting down Main Street. I sat up and took in the sights: a bunch of stores and street lights, several stop signs, couple of town dogs loafing around, and a big tumbleweed rolling down the middle of the street.

  Loper drove into a parking place in front of the Waterhole Cafe, beside two or three other pickups that looked like cowboy rigs. When he got out and saw us back there, he gave us the tongue-lashing I had expected. It was no worse than usual, not bad enough to make me regret that we’d hitched a ride to town.

  He told us to sit, be good, and don’t bark.

  Then he and Slim went into the Waterhole.

  For five or ten minutes we concentrated on being good, which was a real drag. Then I heard Drover go, “Ps-s-s-st!” He jerked his head toward the pickup that was parked next to us. In the back end, fast asleep, was a big ugly boxer dog. We both moved to the side of the pickup bed and stared at him.

  He must have felt our eyes because after a bit his head came up, and he glowered at us with a wicked expression on his face.

  “What are you staring at?”

  “Just looking at the sights,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Puddin’ Tane, ask me again and I’ll tell you the same.”

  I guess Drover didn’t understand what that meant, so he asked, “What’s your name?”

  “John Brown, ask me again and I’ll knock you down.”

  Drover gave me a puzzled look, and I said, “How come they’ve got you chained up?” He was tied to the headache racks of the pickup with a piece of chain.

  “So I won’t kill any dogs.”

  “You kill dogs, no fooling?” Drover asked.

  “Just for drill. I prefer bigger stuff.”

  That sort of ended the conversation. Puddin’ Tane went back to sleep and I got involved with a couple of noisy flies that were bothering my ears. Took a few snaps at ’em but didn’t get anything.

  Next thing I knew, Drover said, “What would you do if we peed on your tires?”

  The boxer’s head came up real slow, and he turned them wicked eyes on little Drover. “What did you say?”

  “I said, what would you do if we peed on your tires?”

  “Uh, Drover . . .” It made me a little uneasy, the way he was talking about we.

  The boxer sat up. “I’d tear off your legs and wring your neck.”

  “But how could you do that when you’re chained up?”

  “Drover.”

  The boxer lifted one side of his mouth and unveiled a set of long white teeth. “I’d bust the chain.

  “It looks pretty stout to me.”

  “Drover.”

  “It ain’t stout enough.”

  “Just curious,” said Drover. Big-and-Ugly went back to sleep and I got back to them flies. One of them was big and green, also a little slow on the draw. I waited for my shot and snapped. Got the little booger! Then I had to spit him out real quick. Boy, did he taste foul.

  Seemed to me I heard water running somewhere. I glanced around and saw Big-and-Ugly’s head come up. He’d heard it too.

  Drover had just wiped out the left rear tire and was going toward the front one. Seemed to me this was poor judgment on Drover’s part.

  The boxer sprang to his feet. “Get away from that tire, runt! No two-bit cowdog is going to mess up my tires!”

  I didn’t like his tone of voice. I got up and wandered to the side of the pickup. “Say there, partner, maybe I didn’t hear you right. You weren’t suggesting that there’s any two-bit cowdogs around here, were you?”

  “I ain’t suggesting, Buddy, I’m saying. You’re a couple of two-bit cowdogs.”

  “Do you mean that as an insult or a compliment?”

  “Cowdog don’t mean but one thing to me: sorry and two-bit.”

  I took a deep breath. “Oh dear. Drover, the dust seems kind of bad all of a sudden. Why don’t you wet down that other tire.”

  He grinned, hiked up his leg, and let ’er rip.

  The boxer went nuts when he saw that. All at once his fangs were flashing in the sunlight. He lunged against the chain and started barking—big, deep roar of a bark, so loud you could feel it bouncing off your face.

  I waited for him to shut up. “You want to take back what you said about cowdogs?” He lunged against the chain and slashed the air about six inches from the end of my nose. “Guess not.”

  I hopped down, skipped around to the right side of the boxer’s pickup, and wiped out the front and back tires. Drover and I met at the front, swapped sides, and gave each tire a second coat.

  Big-and-Ugly went berserk. He fought against the chain and roared. “Let me at ’em, I’ll kill ’em, just let me at ’em!”

  Drover and I finished the job and hopped back into the pickup bed. When the cafe door burst open, we were, ahem, fast asleep. Slim, Loper, and the boxer’s master stormed out.

  “What’s going on out here? You dogs . . .”

  “It’s my dog, Loper, he’s making all the racket. Bruno, shut up! You’re disturbing the whole town.”

  I sat up and opened my eyes. Bruno was getting a good scolding from his master. He whined and wagged his stump tail and tried to explain what had happened. But his master didn’t understand. (This seems to be a common trait in masters.)

  “Now you lie down and be quiet. I don’t want to hear another peep out of you. You know better than that.”

  The men went back inside. I waited a minute and then gave Drover the coast-is-clear sign. We got up and went over to the edge of the pickup. Bruno was lying flat, with his eyes wide open and a couple of fangs showing beneath his lips. He was trembling with rage.

  “Drover, you ever seen an uglier dog than that one?”

  He giggled. “No, never did.”

  “Me neither. Can you imagine what his mother must have looked like?”

  A growl came from deep in Bruno’s throat.

  “I don’t like his pointed ears,” said Drover.

  “You know why they’re pointed, don’t you? When boxers are born, they have such big floppy ears that a surgeon has to cut off two yards of hide. And then they whack off the tail, and then they put the pup’s face into a shop vice and mash it until it looks just like Bruno’s.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yup. And as you might expect, it affects the brain too, mashes it down to the size of a dog biscuit.” The growl in Bruno’s throat was growing louder. “That’s why boxers are so dumb, brain’s been smallered. It’s the mark of the breed. They tell me that you can’t get papers on a boxer unless he’s too dumb to walk across the street. They give ’em a test, see, and all the ones that flunk become registered boxers.”

  By this time the growl had become a steady roar.

  “And that’s why you never see boxers work cattle, just too frazzling dumb to hold down a steady job.”

  Bruno’s eyes were cloudy, as if they were filled with smoke from a fire burning inside. His teeth were snapping together. Maybe he was crushing imaginary bones.

  “Why would anybody want a dog that was so big and dumb and ugly?” Drover asked.

  “I’ve wondered about that myself,” said I, “and the only answer I can come up with is that maybe if a guy had a piece of log chain that he didn’t know what to do with, he’d buy a boxer to hang it on.”

  That did it. Bruno erupted again and lunged at us, his mouth wide open and full of jagged teeth. I got a real good look at his tonsils, which appeared to be a little inflamed.

  I jerked my head at Drover and we was both sending up a line of Z’s when the cowboys came out again.

  “Bruno, what in the world! Bad dog, bad dog! Why can’t you just lie still and shut up like these other dogs?” Bruno whimpered. “Well, I guess I’d better go. Bruno’s on a snort. See y’all later.”
/>   When the pickup drove off, me and Drover sat up and grinned and waved good-bye to our new friend. Bruno was so mad his eyes were crossed and foam dripped off his chops.

  That’s what makes being a cowdog worthwhile. Teamwork.

  Chapter Five: Another Bloody Murder

  When we crossed the cattleguard that put us back on the ranch, I felt a change come over me.

  In town I had been just another happy-go-lucky dog without a care in the world. But back on the ranch, I felt that same crushing sense of responsibility that’s known to people in high places, such as presidents, prime ministers, em­perors, and such. Being Head of Ranch Security is a great honor but also a dreadful burden.

  I remembered the chickenhouse murder. I still didn’t have any suspects, or I had too many suspects, maybe that was it. Everyone was a suspect, well, everyone but the milk cow, and I had pretty muchly scratched her off the list. And the porcupine, since they only eat trees.

  But every other creature on the ranch was under the shadow of suspicion. Except Drover. He was too chicken to kill a chicken.

  When we got home, I trotted up to the chickenhouse and went over the whole thing in my mind. While I was sitting there, lost in thought, a chicken came up and pecked me on the tail. Scared the fool out of me just for a second. I snarled at her and made her squawk and flap her wings.

  That’s another thing about this job. Every day, every night you put your life on the line, and for what? A bunch of idiot birds that would just as soon peck you on the tail as tell you good morning. Sometimes you wonder if it’s worth it, and all that keeps you going is dedication to duty.

  In the end, that’s what separates the top echelon of cowdogs from the common rubble . . . rabble, whatever the word is, anyway the dogs that don’t give a rip, is what I’m saying.

  Well, I had nothing to work with, no evidence, no case. There wasn’t a thing I could do until the killer struck again. I could only hope that me and Drover could catch him in the act.

  I decided to change my strategy. Instead of throwing a guard around the chickenhouse, we would use the stake-out approach.

  “Stake-out” is a technical term which we use in this business. Webster defines “stake” as “a length of wood or metal pointed at one end for driving into the ground.” It comes from the Anglo-Saxon word staca, akin to the Danish staak.

  “Out” is defined as “away from, forth from, or removed from a place, position, or situation.” It comes from the Middle English ut.

  That’s about as technical as I can make it.

  In layman’s terms, a stake-out is basically a trap. You leave the chickenhouse unguarded, don’t you see, and watch and wait and wait and watch until the villain makes his move, and then you swoop in and get him.

  It’s pretty simple, really, when you get used to the terminology.

  At dark, me and Drover staked the place out. We hid in some tall weeds maybe thirty feet from the chickenhouse.

  Time sure did drag. The first couple of hours we heard coyotes howling off in the pastures. Drover kept looking around with big eyes. I thought he might try to slip off to the machine shed, but he didn’t. After a while, he laid his head down on his paws and went to sleep.

  I could have kept him awake, I mean, pulled rank and demanded that he stay awake, but I thought, what the heck, the little guy probably needed the sleep. I figgered I could keep watch and wake him up when the time came for action.

  Then I fell asleep, but the funny thing about it was that I dreamed I was awake, sitting here and standing guard. I kept saying, “Hank, are you still awake?” And Hank said, “Sure I am. If I was asleep, you and I wouldn’t be talking like this, would we?” And I said, “No, I suppose not.”

  Seems to me it’s kind of a waste of good sleep to dream about what you were doing when you were awake, but that’s what happened.

  I heard something squawk, and I said, “Hank, what’s that?”

  “Nuthin.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure. You’re wide awake and watching the stake-out, aren’t you?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Then stop worrying.

  The squawking went on and the next thing I knew, Drover was jumping up and down. “Hank, oh Hank, he’s back, murder, help, blood, we fell asleep, oh my gosh, Hank, wake up!”

  “Huh? I ain’t asleep.” And right then my eyes popped open and I woke up. “Dang the luck, I was asleep! I was afraid of that.”

  We dashed out of the weeds and found a body south of the chickenhouse door. The M.O. was the same. (There’s another technical term, M.O. It stands for Modus of Operationus, which means how it was done. We shorten it to M.O.)

  A pattern began to emerge. The killer had struck twice and both times he had killed a white leghorn hen. (Actually, that might not have been a crucial point because there weren’t any other-colored hens on the place, but I mention it to demonstrate the kind of deep thinking that goes into solving a case of this type. You can’t overlook a single detail, even those that don’t mean anything.)

  But the most revealing clue was that the murderer hadn’t dragged his victim off. That meant that he hadn’t killed for food, but only for the sport of it. In other words, we had a pathagorical killer on the loose.

  This was very significant, the first big break in the case. At last I had an M.O. that narrowed the suspects down to coyotes, coons, skunks, badgers, foxes . . . rats, it hadn’t eliminated anybody and I was right back where I started.

  I hunkered down and studied the body. It was still warm. Warm chicken. My mouth began to water and I noticed a rumble in my stomach. This fresh evidence was pointing the case in an entirely new direction.

  “Uh Drover, why don’t you run on and get some sleep? You’ve had a tough day.”

  “Oh, I’m awake now.”

  “You look sleepy.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes, you do, awful sleepy. Your eyes seem kind of baggy.”

  “Don’t you think we should sound the alarm?”

  “Not just yet. I need to do a little more study on the corpse.” My stomach growled real loud.

  Drover perked his ears. “What was that?”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  He waited and listened. I concentrated on making my stomach shut up. You can do that, you know, control your body with your mind, only it didn’t work this time. My stomach growled again, sounded like a rusty gate hinge.

  “What is that?”

  “Rigor mortis,” I said. “Chickens do that. Run along now and get some sleep. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

  “Well, okay.” He started off and heard my stomach again. He turned around and twisted his head and stared at me. “Was that you?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Good night, Drover.”

  He shrugged and went on down to the gas tanks. I gave him plenty of time to bed down, get comfortable, snap at a few mosquitoes, and fall asleep. My mouth was watering so much that it was dripping off my chin.

  When everything was real quiet, I snatched up the body, loped out into the horse pasture, and began my postmortem investigation. It was very interesting.

  I didn’t hurry this part of the investigation. I labored over my work for several hours and fell into a peaceful sleep.

  When I awoke it was bright daylight. I could feel the rays of the sun warming my coat. I glanced around, trying to remember where I was, and when I figured it out, my heart almost stopped beating.

  I was lying in the center of a circle of white feathers, and several more feathers were clinging to my mouth and nose. My belly bulged, and Sally May was standing over me, a look of horror on her face.

  “Hank! You’re the one! Oh Hank, how could you!”

  Huh? No wait, there had been a mistake. I had only . . . well, you see, I just . . . the chicken was already d
ead and I thought . . . hey, listen, I can explain everything . . .

  It must have looked pretty bad, me lying there in the midst of all that damaging evidence. Sally May headed down to the house, swinging her arms and walking fast.

  I didn’t know what to do. If I ran, it would look bad. If I stayed, it would look bad. No matter what I did, it would look bad. Maybe eating the dern chicken had been a mistake.

  I was still sitting there, mulling over my next course of action, when Sally May returned with her husband.

  “There, look. You see who’s been killing the chickens? Your dog!”

  I whapped my tail against the ground and put on my most innocent face. Loper and I had been through a lot together. Surely he would know that his Head of Ranch Security wasn’t a common chicken-killing dog. He had to trust me.

  But I could see his face harden, and I knew I was cooked. “Hank, you bad dog. I never would have thought you’d do something like this.”

  I didn’t! It was all a mistake, I’d been framed.

  “Come here, Hank.” I crawled over to him. He picked up the chicken head which was lying on the ground. I hadn’t eaten it because I’ve found that beaks are hard to swaller. He tied a piece of string around the head and tied it around my neck. “There. You wear that chicken head until it falls off. Maybe that’ll help you remember that killing hens doesn’t pay around here.”

  They left, talking in low voices and shaking their heads. I tried to bite the string and get that thing off my neck, but I couldn’t do it. I was feeling mighty low, mighty blue. I was ashamed of myself, but also outraged at the injustice of it.

  I headed down to the corral to find Drover. Instead, I ran into Pete the Barncat, just the guy I didn’t want to see. He was sunning himself in front of the saddle shed—in other words, loafing, which is what he does about ninety-five percent of the time. The mice were rampant down at the feed barn, but Pete couldn’t work a mouse patrol into his busy schedule. It interfered with his loafing. That’s a cat for you.

  He saw me before I saw him. He yawned and a big grin spread across his mouth. “Nice necklace you got on, Hankie. Where could a feller buy one of those?”