The Original Adventures of Hank the Cowdog (9 page)

Chapter Twelve: The Exciting Conclusion

S
aint Peter's horn had an odd kind of sound. Instead of saying, “toot-toot,” as you might expect, it said “bal-LOOM!” And it made fire that lit up the sky, and something went whistling over our heads.

Shucks, that wasn't Saint Peter at all. It was High Loper, and he was standing on the back porch, blasting away with his pump shotgun.

Scraunch had just fitted my throat around his jaws and was fixing to remove it when the artillery opened up. He threw his head up in the air.

“Scraunch hurry!” Said one of the other coyotes. “Kill dog fast!”

Scraunch was going for the throat again for a quick kill when the second load of shot arrived. Loper had found his range, and he distributed a full load of number seven birdshot about evenly through the crowd.

You never heard such yipping and squalling. Them coyotes were jumping around like crickets in a shoebox, knocking each other down trying to get out of there.

All but Scraunch. He backed away real slow. “Another time, Hunk. We meet again.”

“Yeah, and so's your old man!” That's the best I could do on the spur of the moment and with a sore throat.

I picked myself up and limped around. I had some nicks and cuts but nothing was busted. I'd come through the fight in pretty good shape, all things considered.

Loper came running up the hill, slipping shells into his shotgun. He hadn't taken the time to put on his jeans, God bless him, which probably saved my life. All he had on was a pair of brown and white striped boxer shorts, his cowboy boots, and a tee shirt with three holes in it, and also some windmill grease. Legs looked awful pale and skinny sticking out of them boxer shorts.

“Danged coyotes!” he yelled. Then he looked at me and—this next part is kind of shocking, so prepare yourself—he looked at me and—still gets me a little choked up, even today—he
SMILED
!

That's right, he smiled at
me
, Hank the Cow­dog. I mean, I was just by George overwhelmed by it. In my whole career, I couldn't remember Loper ever smiling at me.

“Hank!” he cried. “You've come back home!” He laid down the gun and came over and throwed his arms around me and gave me a big hug. “By golly it's good to have you . . .” I licked him on the face. He drew back and wrinkled his nose. “Dog, you stink! Where have you been?”

Aged mutton, is where I'd been.

About then, Sally May came up the hill, tying the strings on her housecoat and pushing the hair out of her eyes, which were red and puffy. “What is it, what's wrong?”

“Coyotes, hon, a whole pack of 'em. I bet they were trying to get into the chickenhouse, but old Hank suddenly appeared—good dog, Hank, good dog—and he and Drover . . . where's Drover?”

That was a good question. I'd kind of forgot about him in all the excitement. Then Sally May gave a cry. “Oh no! I think he's . . . he's not moving, just lying there.”

I've already mentioned that in the security business, you can't afford to let your emotions get the best of you. I mean, it's a tough business and you have to be prepared for the worst.

I considered myself pretty muchly hardboiled, but when I saw little Drover stretched out there on the ground, it really ripped me. I mean, the little guy had done his best to protect the ranch, he'd stood his ground under combat conditions. But now . . . 

We all went over to him. He didn't move a muscle, not even a hair, and it was pretty clear to me that he was, well, dead. A big tear came out of my eye and rolled down my nose. I had to turn away, couldn't stand to look anymore.

Loper bent down and there was a long silence. “His heart's beating. He's still alive.”

“Thank goodness,” said Sally May.

“Actually, I can't see anything wrong with him. He's got a nick on his nose and one ear's been chewed on, but other than that, he looks all right.”

“Let's take him to the house. I'll make him a nice little bed and try to get some warm milk down him.”

Loper gathered him up in his arms and they started down the hill. I just happened to be looking at Drover when, all at once, one eye popped open. He glanced around and closed it again.

The little runt was half-stepping, is what he was doing, and he wasn't about to miss out on that soft bed and warm milk. All right, maybe he fainted or something in the heat of battle, sounds like something he'd do, but I could see that he wasn't feeling no pain.

It took him two whole days to get over his craving for warm milk and a soft bed, and he probably could have strung it out another day or two, only he peed on the carpet and got throwed out.

I was down by the corrals when he came padding up. “Hi, Hank, what's going on?”

I was working on another case and didn't really want to be disturbed. “Hello, Half-stepper. What's going on is that some of us have to work for a living so that others of us can attend to the milk-drinking.”

He shrugged and gave me a silly grin. “I'm feeling much better now, thanks.”

“I'll bet.”

“What you working on?”

I glanced over both shoulders before I answered. “There's something funny going on around here, Drover. Look at these tracks.” I pointed to the tracks but he didn't look.

“Tracks are down here in the dirt, son. That's where you find most tracks, on the ground.”

“Hank, tell me something. Did you really join up with the coyotes? I mean, did you really think you could live with them?”

I walked a short distance away and for a minute I didn't answer. “Drover, if I tell you something, will you swear to keep it a secret?” He bobbed his head. “No, I mean you've got to swear an oath.”

He raised his right paw. “I swear an oath, Hank. My lips are sealed.”

“Okay, I guess I can trust you. You know what undercover work is?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, that's what I was doing. See, we weren't getting anywhere with the chickenhouse murders, and I figgered the only way we could crack the case was for me to infiltrate the coyote tribe. It was risky. I knew there was a good chance I'd never come back alive, but it had to be done.”

“No fooling?”

“That's right. And it had to be top secret. I mean, I couldn't even let you in on it. If them coyotes had ever suspected a thing, it would have been curtains for this old dog.”

“Wow. Weren't you scared?”

“Naw. Well, a little bit. Actually, the toughest problem was keeping the women away.”

“The women?”

“Right. Drover, you won't believe this, but they was actually fighting over me. I mean, it got embarrassing after a while. Why, one evening these two beautiful women . . . I'll tell you about it some other time. Right now we've got another case to crack. Now look at these tracks. What do you make of them?”

Drover squinted at the tracks. “Well, they were made by an animal, and I'd say the animal walked right past here and left these tracks in the dirt.”

“So far, so good. Keep going.”

He shook his head. “That's all I see, Hank. I'm stumped.”

“Okay, now listen and learn. Them's badger tracks. While we was busy fighting off the whole coyote nation, a badger slipped into the ranch, and I've got an idea that he's still around.”

“You mean . . . if we follow the tracks, we'll find him?”

“That's correct.

“Uh-oh. Badgers are pretty tough.”

“Yes, that's true, but duty's duty. If we start letting badgers in here, before you know it they'll try to take the place over. Come on, Drover, we've got work to do.”

He gulped. “Badgers have big claws, Hank.”

“You leave the claws to me. I'll go in the first wave, then you jump him from behind. And dang you, if you run off and leave me again, I'll . . . I don't know what I'll do, but you won't like it.”

“Okay, Hank. I'll be right behind you.”

I put my nose to the ground and started following the trail. It led around the saddle shed and through the garden. Reading the signs, I saw where Mr. Badger had stopped in the garden and dug up a couple of worms or bugs.

I continued east, following the trail through the gate, past the gas tanks, up the hill, and right to the yard fence.

“This is worse than I thought, Drover. He's in the yard. That doesn't leave us much choice. This could get nasty, could be a fight to the death.”

“Whose death?”

“In this business, you never know. You just have to give your best for the ranch. Come on, let's move out.”

We hopped over the fence. I got down in my stalking position and picked up the trail again.

The scent was getting stronger now. It was
real
strong. Badgers have musk glands, you know, and they leave a heavy scent.

Suddenly I saw him, hiding in a bunch of flowers. I froze. Drover ran into me. “This is it,” I whispered. “Good luck.”

I crept forward two more steps, went into my attack position, and sprang.

Suspended in the air over the flowerbed, I got a good look at the enemy. It suddenly occurred to me that badgers aren't black with two white stripes running down the middle of their backs. They don't have a small head with beady little eyes, or a long bushy tail.

It was a skunk. I had been duped.

I tried to change course in midair but it was too late. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Drover jump the yard fence and head for the machine shed.

What followed was entirely predictable. I landed right in the middle of the scoundrel. He fired. The air turned yellow and poisonous. My eyes began to water and I gasped for breath.

Sally May's south window happened to be open. Was that my fault? I mean, had I gone through the house that morning opening all the windows? Of course not, but on this ranch, Rule Number One is that, when in doubt, blame Hank.

I ran for my life and rounded the corner of the house just as Sally May came boiling out the back door. She was armed with a broom and took a swat at me as I flew past. My eyes were stinging so badly that I . . . 

You've got to understand that I could hardly see and was having trouble catching my breath. The back porch door was open, and you might say that I ran into the utility room . . . where Sally May had just taken a basket of clean clothes out of the washing machine.

Was it
my
fault that she happened to be washing clothes that day?

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU STINKING DOG!”

Well, as I've said before, every dog in this world isn't cut out for security work. It requires a keen mind, a thick skin, and a peculiar devotion to duty. I mean, you put in sixteen-eighteen hours a day. You're on call day and night. Your life is on the line every time you go out on patrol. You're doing jobs that nobody else wants to do because of the danger, etc.

You make the world a little safer, a little better. You take your satisfaction where you can get it, in knowing that you're doing the job right.