The Case of the Fiddle Playing Fox

The Case of the Fiddle-Playing Fox

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 Texas Monthly Press, 1989, then Gulf Publishing Company, 1990.

Subsequently published simultaneously by Viking Children's Books and Puffin Books, members of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 1999.

Currently published by Maverick Books, Inc., 2012.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Copyright © John R. Erickson, 1989

All rights reserved

Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-112-4

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.

Contents

Chapter One
Why the Sun Rises, in Case You Didn't Know

Chapter Two
Little Alfred's School of Cat Roping

Chapter Three
The Case of the Missing Eggs

Chapter Four
The Case of the Phoney Fiddle Music in the Night

Chapter Five
The Deadly Shower of Sparks

Chapter Six
Loneliness on the Front Lines

Chapter Seven
Fiddle Hypnosis, and How I Managed to Resist It

Chapter Eight
Frankie the Fox

Chapter Nine
The Famous Frankie and Hankie Chicken House Band

Chapter Ten
A Clever Plan to Sweep Miss Beulah Off Her Feet

Chapter Eleven
The Trap of Love Backfires

Chapter Twelve
Heartbroken and Sprayed, but a Hero to the End

Chapter One: Why the Sun Rises, in Case You Didn't Know

I
t's me again, Hank the Cowdog. You're probably wondering what I was doing in bed at 8 o'clock on the morning of whatever day it is about which I'm fixing to speak.

It was in September, seems to me. Hot, still days, nights with just a hint of autumn chill. Kind of a lonesome time of year in these parts.

Yes, it was in September that I first heard about the Mysterious Fiddle Music in the night. Little did I know that very soon our henhouse would be attacked by a devious, sneaking, outlaw rogue, or that I myself would become a suspect in the case, or that I would soon cross paths with the One Love of My Life, the incomparable, incredible Miss Beulah the collie.

But I'll get to that in a minute. I had mentioned something about sleeping late.

Ordinarily I take great pride in being the first one up on the ranch, don't you know. For one thing, I like to get a head start on everybody else. For another, I've never had complete confidence that the sun would come up without me there to supervise.

You want to know why I don't trust the sun? Simple logic.

The sun is round, right? A ball. If you've ever observed a sunrise, you've noticed that the sun is moving from the bottom of the sky to the top of the sky. In other words, this ball which we call the sun is
rolling uphill
.

It ain't natural for a ball, any ball, to roll uphill. In fact, it's impossible. Balls do not roll uphill unless, of course, they're urged along by an extraordinary outside force.

Now, I wouldn't want to come right out and say that I happen to be that extraordinary outside force which barks the sun up into the sky every day of the world and prevents total blackness from enveloping the globe.

On the other hand, I can't name anybody else on this outfit who does it, and if cold hard logic singles me out as the Bringer of Light and the Creator of Days . . .

A guy hates to toot his own horn, so to speak, but if you want to say that I'm the one who causes the sun to rise every day, I guess that's okay with me.

Where was I? Oh yes. After saying what I just said about me never EVER sleeping late, I'm going to give you a little shock by revealing that on a certain morning in September . . .

It was very warm, see, and sometimes on warm lazy mornings even I am tempted by the weaknesses of the flesh. When flesh gets warm, it develops a certain craving for things that are soft and even warmer, such as warm gunnysack beds.

And I can't always control my own flesh.

Oh, I know all the smart remarks you can make about late sleepers. “Studies show that more dogs die in bed than on streets and highways.” Ho, ho. And, “What are you doing, trying to homestead that gunnysack?” Ha, ha. And, “Have you put down any roots in that bed?” Hee, hee.

Very funny. I slept late that morning and I don't care what anybody says about it and I don't feel guilty about it either. So there you are. You've got to be tough in this business.

Well, when I realized what I had . . . what my flesh had done, that is, I jumped up from my gunnysack, threw an arch in my back, took a big stretch, opened my mouth to its fully extended position, threw a curl into my tongue, and yawned.

I don't know that I had ever experienced a better yawn in my whole career. Wonderful. I love to yawn.

I looked down at my assistant. To no one's surprise, he was still asleep. “Get up, Half-Stepper, the day's half over. Are you trying to homestead that gunnysack?”

He had been twitching and grunting in his sleep. Now his eyes fell open, revealing for the first time the huge nothingness behind them.

“Irk mirk snicklefritz.”

“That's no excuse. Wake up and let's get this day started.”

“Irk snickle I am amirk. I never did go to snork last night.”

“What?”

“I said,” his eyes began to focus, “I am awake, I never did go to sleep last . . . or did I?”

“You did, take my word for it, and you might have even put down some roots in that gunnysack. Now GET UP!”

He sprang to his feet. “I'm up, I'm up! And don't yell at me in the morning, you know what it does to me.”

“I know that your shameful behavior has just won you a big fat goose egg.”

“Oh boy, I love eggs.”

“Goose egg means zero. It means you've flunked your examination and have failed to come up with a good excuse for sleeping late.”

“Oh drat.”

“This will have to go into your record, of course. Did you realize, Drover, that studies show that more dogs died in bed last year than on all the streets and highways in Ochiltree County?”

“No, I didn't know that.”

“A bed is one of the most dangerous devices ever invented. It's been linked to thousands upon thousands of deaths.”

“I'll be derned. What did they do with all the dead dogs?”

“We don't have an answer to that question yet, Drover, but the important point here is that there is an irreguffable relationship between
bed
and
dead
.”

“Yeah, they rhyme.”

“Exactly, so let that be a lesson to you. The next time you want to sleep until noon, you'd be better off and safer to sleep on a rattlesnake than on a bed.”

“What time did you get up?”

“Eh, me? Well, uh, 5:30, as always. Or was it 4:30? Yes, it was 4:30. Very early. Before the chickens. As always.”

At that very moment, whom do you suppose came pecking along our dog trail between the gas tanks and the corrals?
Pecking
is the clue here, and it rules out Pete the Barncat and other suspects who don't peck.

It was J. T. Cluck, the Head Rooster. He appeared to be pecking for seeds and gravel and the other garbage that chickens eat. He walked up to me and Drover, stared at the end of my tail, and then pecked it.

I don't appreciate anyone pecking my tail. It's not that I can't stand pain or that chickens are capable of inflicting much pain with their teakless booths—their toothless beaks, I should say. It's more a matter of principle. I just don't allow anyone to mess with my tail, that's all.

And so it should come as no surprise that after changing the location of my tail so the chicken couldn't peck it again, I snarled at him. That got his attention!

His head shot up so fast that it caused his comb, or whatever you call that red thing on his head, to jiggle. He squawked, flapped his wings, and jumped into the air.

“
Bawk-ka-bawk-bawk!
Elsa, Elsa, come quick!” He stared at me and blinked his eyes. “Well I'll be a son of a gun, was that your tail? I'm proud to see you dogs finally got out of bed.”

Drover piped up. “Hank was up at 4:30 this morning. He told me so himself.”

“Hush, Drover.”

J.T. leaned forward and brought his beak about an inch from the end of mister Big Mouth's nose. “Well, he told you a big fat lie! When I made first call this morning, your friend Hank was growing roots in that gunnysack right there.”

“I . . . I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about,” I said.

“Course you know what I'm talking about. I made first call before daylight and I seen you down here, sleeping your life away, beats anything I ever saw.”

“You must have been mistaken.”

“And when I made second call, you was still homesteading that gunnysack bed. Did you know that more dogs died in bed last year than on all the streets and highways in Ochiltree County?”

I gave him a withering glare. “Where did you hear that? Have you been listening to our conversations?”

“Naw. I ain't ever been that hard up for something to do.”

“In that case, I think you'd better scram. If there's anything I can't stand, it's a smart-aleck rooster first thing in the morning.”

“If you ask me, sleeping late is more dangerous than . . .”

“BEAT IT!” I barked in his face. He squawked, flapped his wings, and went scurrying up the hill.

“Okay for you, mister,” J.T. yelled over his wing, “and just for that, I ain't going to tell you about the Mysterious Fiddle Music in the Night!”

“That's fine with me, Featherbed, because . . .”

HUH? Fiddle . . . in the . . . ?

And so the mystery began, with a careless statement by J. T. Cluck, the Head Rooster. At the time, I had no idea that it would lead me into new adventures and dangerous encounters with one of the slickest, smoothest, fiendishest crinimal characters I had ever encountered.

If I had known it, I don't know what I would have done, but chances are that I would have done something, because even doing nothing is something.

Not much, but still something.