The Mopwater Files

The Case of the Mopwater Files

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 Gulf Publishing Company, 1997.

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., 2013

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Copyright © John R. Erickson, 1997

All rights reserved

Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-128-5

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

To Kit and Geraldine

Contents

Chapter One
Total Meltdown on the Ranch

Chapter Two
Drover Eats a Grasshopper

Chapter Three
I'm Forced to Humble the Cat

Chapter Four
Grasshoppers Taste Yucko

Chapter Five
My Tremendous Scientific Discovery

Chapter Six
I Prepare to Thrash the Neighborhood Bully

Chapter Seven
Poisoned by Mopwater

Chapter Eight
Higher Duty Calls Me to Battle

Chapter Nine
Madame Moonshine Is Captured by Cannibals

Chapter Ten
The Singing Ignoramuses

Chapter Eleven
I Manage to Save Madame Moonshine

Chapter Twelve
Caution: Scary Ending

Chapter Thirteen
There Isn't a Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen
The Story's Over, Go Home

Chapter One: Total Meltdown on the Ranch

I
t's me again, Hank the Cowdog. Have we ever discussed the Mopwater Files? Maybe not, because it's still Highly Classified information and we're not ready to go public with it.

We may never go public with it. It's too secret. Oh, and it has a scary ending. You wouldn't like it.

That's too bad. It was a pretty interesting case but I'm just not in a position to . . .

Do you remember Rufus the Doberman Pin­­s­cher? Big guy, little green eyes, sharp-pointed ears, long fangish teeth. A terrible bully, always tormenting Miss Beulah the Collie, and you talk about ugly! He was ugly, inside and out.

It's still hard to believe that I actually challenged that guy to a fight to the death, but then came the bucket of toxic mopwater and . . .

Oops. I wasn't supposed to reveal anything about the case. Forget I said anything. Why, if this information fell into the wrong hands . . . just forget it. That's all I can say.

What were we talking about? Oh yes, the weather. It was the middle of the summer, see, and hotter than blue blazes. It had been hot for days and weeks, and there I was, wearing a fur coat.

Yellowjacket wasps hummed in the still air and you could see heat waves shimmering on the horizon. The wind had quit blowing. The windmills had quit pumping. The cowboys had quit working.

I had started out the morning in a nice piece of shade beneath the gas tanks, but by eleven o'clock the shade had . . . I don't know what happened to it. It had burned up or boiled away or something, and I found myself lying in the scorching glare of the sun.

What a cheap trick! I had to summon up huge reserves of energy to move myself to another piece of shade on the west side of the storage tank. It was tough, let me tell you, and I just barely made it.

But you know what? Something happened to that shade too, and within an hour I was roasting again. And all at once I faced the toughest decision of the day: would I get up and move my freight to another shady spot, or would I just lie there and roast?

I raised my head and studied the situation. I could see the shade. There it was, not more than six inches from my present location, but to get there, I would have to go through the entire Jack Up and Move procedure, just as though I were moving halfway across the ranch.

That doesn't seem fair, does it? If a guy travels no more than a few inches, he shouldn't have to go to all that trouble. Think about it. Raise head. Position legs under body. Push up on front legs. Push up on back legs. Coordinate the Walking Pattern for all four feet. Walk six inches to the west. Collapse.

It wasn't fair. It was an outrage, and I decided that I wouldn't do it. By George, I would just lie there in the sun and roast. That would teach them . . . whoever They were . . . and I hoped They would take notice and quit messing around with my shade.

I laid my head down and began roasting. I heard my deep breathing and listened to the stupid flies buzzing around my ears. I hate 'em. If I'd had more energy, I would have raised up and snapped 'em all out of the air.

Snapped 'em out of the air and chewed 'em up into little bitty pieces of legs and wings, and then spit 'em all out on the ground. That's what a fly deserves and that was how much I hated the little tormenting devils, but I didn't have the energy to initiate a good Anti-fly Defense Program.

So I just lay there in the sun and roasted, and let the flies walk around my ears . . . over my face . . .

Into my nose?

Okay, that did it! They could have the ears but no fly walks into my nose. I lifted my head and cut loose a withering barrage of snapping. I missed them all, but they got the message and left my nose alone.

And, what the heck, once I had gone to all the trouble to raise my head, I figured I might as well go on into Jack Up and Move. I jacked myself up, staggered five steps to the west, and collapsed.

Whew! I was exhausted, but at least I wasn't roasting. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. That's what I needed. Sleep. About two weeks of solid sleep.

Unfortunately, Slim the Cowboy came along just then. I cracked one eye but didn't lift my head. Too exhausted. Slim was a pretty good fellow, but not so good that I could afford to squander a lot of energy saying hello. Not in this heat.

He stopped in the same piece of shade that I was occupying. He pulled a bandanna out of his hip pocket and mopped his face.

“Boy, it's hot. The weather report's prescribing another day over a hundred. This'll make about five days in a row.”

Yes, I was aware of that.

“It kind of saps a guy of energy, don't it, Hankie?”

Right.

“And you're just going to lay there in the shade, aren't you?”

Yep.

“You're not even going to jump up and wag your tail and tell me how wonderful I am, are you?”

Nope.

“It kind of hurts my feelings, Hankie.”

Life is hard.

“Well, I wish I could just lay around in the shade, but some of us have to work for a living.”

That was a cheap shot. For his information, I not only had a job but a very important job. It just happened that . . . well, I had run out of energy and ambition.

You won't believe this. He flopped down on the gravel drive and pillowed his head on my rib cage. Had I invited him to . . . urg . . . put his sweaty head in the middle of my poor exhausted body? No. I considered taking countermeasures but . . . too much trouble.

“Ahhh! That's better, but you're awful bony for a pillow.”

Well, if he didn't like my bones, he could go find a jellyfish. And speaking of bones, his head wasn't any featherbed. It was solid bone and it was heavy and hot and I didn't need it on my rib cage, thank you.

“Boy, this heat is terrible. It didn't used to bother me, but it sure does now. I've got thirty-seven jobs to do and enough energy for about three of 'em.”

Me too.

“Too many birthdays, Hank. Don't you reckon that's the main problem?”

I had no opinion on that.

At last he raised up to a sitting position. He looked down at me and grinned. I summoned up the energy to whap my tail on the ground three times. Whew!

“Well, this has been fun, Hankie, but I'd better go pack them wheel bearings on the stock trailer. I can already tell that you ain't going to do it.”

Correcto.

With much grunting and muttering, he pushed himself up and shuffled off to the machine shed.

At last, peace and quiet. I closed my eyes and began floating out on the sea of snoik morkus skittlebomb . . .

Huh? My eyes popped open. Someone had moved my shade again! Was this some kind of joke? What was the deal? Every time I got comfortable, some idiot . . .

I summoned my last reserves of energy and . . . Drover? There he was in front of me, giving me his usual foolish grin.

“Hi Hank. What you doing?”

“What I'm doing is trying to sleep, Drover, and restore my precious bodily fluids, but some maniac keeps moving my shade around. Did you see anybody messing with my shade?”

“Well, let me think here. I saw Slim.”

“No, it wasn't him. I had him under constant surveillance.”

“Boy, that's a big word.”

“Thanks.”

“I wonder what it means.”

I dragged myself back into the shade and flopped down. “I don't know what it means. I don't have the energy to explain it. I'm sorry I brought it up.”

“Oh, that's okay. Sure is hot, isn't it?”

I glared ice picks at him. “Yes it is, Drover, so why are you so chirpy?”

“Oh, I don't know. I've been watching the chickens chase grasshoppers.”

“Great.”

“You ever watch a chicken chase a grasshopper?”

“Yes.”

“It's kind of neat, isn't it?”

“No.”

“I mean, they're pretty good at it.”

“It's their busi­ness, Drover. If you're a chicken, that's what you do. Good night.”

“Good night . . . only it's the middle of the day.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“Boy, it sure is hot.”

“That's why I'm shaded up, Drover. It's too hot to do any work, so snorkle the mirking piffle.”

“Yeah, but I can't sleep and I get bored. You ever get bored?”

“Snork.”

“I do. You ever try to catch a grasshopper?”

“No.”

“Me neither, but I bet I could. Want me to try?”

“Sure. Go catch a pifflehopper.”

“Okay, Hank, here I go.”

At last! Peace and quiet. I sank into the warm embrace of a delicious dream and . . . Beulah? My goodness, there she was in all her splintering glory: the deep brown eyes, the flaxen hair, the perfect collie nose, the smile that said . . .