I don’t know how much of this she understood. Coyotes don’t speak the same language as dogs, don’t you see. Some of the words are similar and some aren’t. Modern Doglish and the coyote dialect both come from the same linguistic root, which was the ancient language spoken by our common ancestors many years ago before the species split into Dogus Domesticus and Dogus Coyotus.
This is pretty technical stuff, and I don’t want to bore anyone, but it’s important that the reader understand these things.
Well, it just so happened that I was fluent in the coyote dialect, so I decided to address the lady in her own language.
“Me not hurt Missy Coyote. Me friend, me help Missy. Missy have trouble.”
“You not hurt?” Her voice echoed inside the can.
“Me not hurt. Me help. Missy Coyote lie still, not move. Hank fixy real quick.”
For a long time she didn’t speak. Then, “Missy lie still.”
It was important that I got the point across to her that I was a friend, don’t you see, because it would have been typical coyote behavior for her to jump up, once I got the can off her head, and tear off one of my ears. They’re just a little bit crazy, them coyotes, and you’ve got to be careful.
Anyway, she lay still while I hooked my front paws around the can and started pulling. I pulled and I tugged and I strained and I grunted, and finally the can popped free.
That’s when I got my first look at Missy Coyote’s face.
I’m not one to gush or be overwhelmed. Let’s get that straight right here. My years in the security business have trained me to look upon most things as mere facts, facts to be gathered and studied and analyzed.
I mean, I’d seen women before, lots of ’em, scads of ’em. I’d been through times in my life when women were hanging all over me, and I literally couldn’t take a step without bumping into an adoring female.
If you’re a cowdog, you get used to this. It’s common knowledge that cowdogs are just a little bit special. Read your dog books, ask anyone who knows about dogs, check it out with the experts. They’ll tell you that women flip over cowdogs.
What I’m saying—and I’m just trying to put it all into perspective, don’t you see—is that I wasn’t one of these dogs that chased women all the time or even had much interest in them.
But you know what? When I seen Missy Coyote’s face, with those big eyes and that fine tapered nose, I got weak in the legs and kind of swimmy in the head. She was the by George prettiest thang I’d ever laid eyes on.
“Missy Coyote . . . pretty.”
She was still blinking her eyes against the glare of the sun. Guess she’d been in that can for a day or two. When she got used to the sunlight, she looked me over real close. Then she smiled.
I melted. I mean, I actually fell over and started kicking my legs in the air. It was an unconscious, unwanted response, not the kind of reaction you’d expect from a professional cowdog. But as I’ve pointed out before, I was only flesh and blood.
Missy didn’t understand my spasm, I reckon, and she came over. Had her head cocked to the side like this—oh well, you can’t see—she had her head cocked to the side.
“What wrong? You sick?”
“Yeah, I’m sick all right. I need to get out of here.” I struggled to my feet and tried to leave, but my back legs didn’t function.
“Not leave,” she said. “Stay. Tell name.”
I was sure she could hear my heart beating. I could. It was about to take off the top of my head, to be exact. “Me Hank,” I finally managed to say.
Her eyes brightened. “Pretty name, Hunk.”
“Not Hunk. Hank.”
She nodded. “Yes, Hunk. Pretty name. Me like. Hunk.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Me called Girl-Who-Drink-Blood.”
“Girl-Who-Drink-Blood!”
She nodded and smiled. “You like?”
There wasn’t a whole lot of poetry in that name, seemed to me. Her old lady, or whoever named her, must have been a real barbarian.
“Me no like. Me call you Missy Coyote. Like Missy Coyote moreso. Bloody name not pretty.”
She laughed. “Bloody name pretty to coyote. Coyote like blood. Make grow strong, keep hair pretty in winter. Hunk no like blood in winter?”
“Hank eat Co-op dog food in winter, no need blood.”
“What means, Co-op dog food?”
“No can explain. Too complicated.”
“Why Hunk here, not at people-place with many building and house with chicken?”
“Hank get mad at people, quit job. People no understand. Hank no more guard chicken. Hank follow outlaw trail.”
Her eyes widened. “Outlaw trail dangerous. Live out in wild, coyote around. Coyote not like Hunk.”
I decided it was time to turn on some of my charm, just a little at a time. Didn’t want to give the girl the full load all at once. “Missy Coyote like Hank?”
She smiled. Mercy! Made me weak in the legs again. “Missy think Hunk cute.”
“Ah heck, really? Me cute?”
Her smile faded. “But other coyote not think so. Missy have brother named Scraunch. Not like ranch dog, hurt if find.”
“You’re Scraunch’s sister?”
She nodded. I knew about Scraunch, the most notorious outlaw coyote in the whole country. He was big, mean, and utterly heartless. He’d probably killed more chickens and barn cats than any three coyotes on the ranch, and it was common knowledge that he’d kill a stray dog just for the sport of it.
As a matter of fact, me and Scraunch had met on the field of battle and had fought to a draw—which I had considered a victory. That was back in the winter. January, as I recall, yes it was, because we fought in the snow. Scraunch was a real thug.
“How can a nice girl like you have such a bad brother?
She shook her head. “Hunk be careful, maybe go back ranch. Not safe here.”
I leaned forward and nuzzled her under the chin with the end of my nose. “I ain’t scared. Hank ready to fight whole family for Missy.”
I noticed that she started trembling, thought maybe it was the result of my charm. Then she whispered, “Hunk in trouble. Whole family here.”
“Huh?”
I looked around. She wasn’t kidding. The whole danged family had arrived. We was surrounded by lean-limbed, long-haired, scruffy-tailed, yellow-eyed, slack-jawed, hungry-looking coyotes.
I was in trouble, fellers, and had a feeling that a wreck was coming.
Chapter Eight: Hank Runs a Bluff
Missy’s old man was the chief. His full proper name was Many-Rabbit-Gut-Eat-in-Full-Moon, which in coyote culture was regarded as a beautiful name. Can you imagine a mother saddling an innocent pup with a name like that? Shows just how backward them coyotes were.
Anyway, nobody used his full name except at rituals and war councils and such. Mostly they called him Chief Gut or just plain Gut.
Gut was an old devil, skinny. You could count every rib he owned on both sides. Looked like a one-way plow with a wet blanket throwed over the discs. Walked with a limp, packed his right front leg which was missing a couple of toes. Had a long scar down the front of his face, nose was all beat up, and his left ear looked as though the rats had been chewing on it.
He came limping over to where I was and, strangely enough, he had a smile on his face. Made me feel a little better about things.
“Ah ha,” he laughed, “daughter catch dog! Coyote girl pretty, huh?”
“Mighty pretty, yes she is.”
“You like, huh?” He turned to the other coyotes. “Dog like Girl-Who-Drink-Blood. Think she pretty.” They roared at that, got a good chuckle out of it. I must have missed the joke. Old Gut turned back to me. “Oh foolish dog to chase coyote girl into canyon. Berry berry foolish you leave ranch, come here withou
t big-hat and boom-boom.”
I’m doing my best to translate this conversation from the coyote dialect, but maybe I ought to pause here to clear up some of the terminology.
Big-hat was the coyote word for cowboy, and boom-boom meant gun. Thought I better get that straight. I mean, you can’t expect everyone to be fluent in three or four or five languages. I was, but that was just part of my job, one of the many things a top-notch cowdog had to master before he could take over a ranch and run it the way it ought to be run.
I might also mention that I had a fair knowledge of the coon, possum, and badger dialects, and I could bluff my way through in chicken and prairie dog. Actually, chicken is pretty simple. Chickens are so dumb that they only have about half a dozen words in the whole language, and three of those words are just different ways of saying help!
All right, we’ve got that out of the way. Now, where was I? Old Gut turned to me. “Oh foolish dog to chase coyote girl into canyon. Berry . . .” We’ve already heard that. “Now you in big trouble, ha! You do good job, Daughter, catch dog.”
“Not catch dog,” she said. “Dog help, save life. Name Hunk. Hunk friend.”
The old man scowled. “Hunk not friend. Fight coyote many time away from chicken. He chicken dog.”
Chicken dog. Them was fightin’ words. If Missy hadn’t been there to hold me back, I might have cleaned house on the whole coyote nation. Me and old man Gut went nose to nose and were growling at each other when I caught some motion out of the corner of my eye. I looked. It was Scraunch.
He was crouched low, walking real slow. Hair along his backbone was bristled all the way from the back of his neck to the tip of his tail. Had a snarl on his mouth that showed two rows of long white fangs. He was a big dude, tall, brawny, raw-boned, and so ugly that a guy could hardly stand to look him in the face. Kind of throwed a chill in me.
Old man Gut backed off. “Now what you say, Chicken Dog? You scared betcha, huh?”
I swallered and tried to keep my knees from going out on me. “Naw, I ain’t scared.”
“You not scared Scraunch, you not smart. Scraunch berry bad fellow.”
I glanced at Missy. “Tell your brother that I don’t like the look on his face.”
She told him. He stopped and a roar of laughter went up from the other coyotes. When they quit yipping and howling, I went on. “Tell your brother that if he takes one more step, I’m gonna use him to sweep this whole pasture, and when I get done, there won’t be a cactus bush left in Ochiltree County.”
She told him. He grinned and took another step.
“Tell your brother that I saw that, and I won’t forget it.”
Missy shook her head. “Not talk so big. Make Scraunch mad. Big mouth make big trouble.”
One of the first rules you learn in security work is an old piece of dog wisdom: never bite if you can bark; never bark if you can growl; never growl if you can talk; and never talk if you can run.
In other words, when the odds are against you, the best kind of fight is none at all. That was my strategy, see. The longer I talked, the longer I could stay alive. And who knows, I just might say something that would change Scraunch’s mind about tearing me limb from limb, though I didn’t have a great deal of hope.
He was standing maybe four, five feet in front of me. A hush had fallen over the tribe and all eyes were on the two of us. He sat down and leered at me. And I mean leered, brother. That wasn’t no ordinary grin.
I leered right back, tried to anyway, though I’d never really perfected a good leer. Then I turned to Missy again.
“Tell your brother that I’ve changed my mind. If he can mind his manners and act right, we’ll forget the whole thing.”
Missy started to speak, but Scraunch lifted his paw for silence. “Not speak through sister,” he said in a deep rumbling voice. “You have talk, you speak Scraunch.”
“All right,” I nodded, “you asked for it, you’ve really done it this time. I was prepared to forget the whole thing and just let it slide, but by George if you’re going to keep pushing and mouthing off, well hey, this could get serious. Come on.”
He didn’t move.
“Come on! Get off your duff and let’s settle this thing once and for all. I’m tired of waiting. I mean, I came out here to get you, Scraunch. Oh, I know, you thought I was messing around with your sister. Ha! That’s just what I wanted you to think. It was a trap, Scraunch, and you walked right into it.
“Oh, what a dumb brute you are! I didn’t think you’d actually fall for it. I never dreamed it would be this easy. All these months I’ve been waiting to even the score between us, and I never dreamed I could just walk into the canyon and you’d come to me!”
Speaking of silence, them coyotes was silent. Guess they couldn’t believe what they were hearing. Scraunch glanced at Chief Gut and Gut glanced at Missy and Missy glanced at me, and I gave her a smile and a wink.
Scraunch stood up, and so did the hair on the back of his neck. “Scraunch kill chicken dog.”
“You think so? You actually think that?” I cut loose with a wild laugh. “Holy cats, where have you been all your life? You’ve been up in the bojacks too long, Scraunch, you’re so country it hurts. I mean, you’re pathetic. I almost feel sorry for you.” I took a step toward him. “You still don’t understand, do you? It still hasn’t soaked through your thick barbarian skull that you’ve walked right into my trap. Ho, I can’t believe this!”
Scraunch cut his eyes toward old Gut.
“Scraunch kill chicken dog.” But there was a little less conviction this time.
“Okay.” I marched right up to him, until there weren’t more than a couple of inches between our noses. “If you’re bound and determined to go through with this, let’s get it on. But first, I want you to do something. I want you to ask yourself this question: Why would a smart dog walk right into the middle of a bunch of coyotes, in their country? Put your little brain to work on that, Scraunch. If you figger it out, you’ll know the secret. I’ll give you thirty seconds.”
Nobody moved. There wasn’t a sound, not a whisper. Fifteen seconds went by real slow. I was in the process of checking out the escape routes when an old woman coyote (Scraunch’s mother, it turned out) broke the circle and came out to him. She whispered something in his ear.
“No!” he growled. “Scraunch not scared, kill chicken dog!”
The old lady went to whispering again, then old Chief Gut limped over and joined the conference. It was kind of agitated. They growled and snapped and snarled—typical coyote family discussion, I would imagine.
“All right,” I yelled, “time’s up. I’m out of patience. Have you figgered out the secret or shall we start spilling blood?”
The old lady led Scraunch away. He glared daggers at me over his shoulder. Old Chief Gut came over and stood in front of me.
“Not fight today.”
“Rats,” I said, and almost fainted with relief. “All right, if that’s the way you want it. We’ll let it slide this time, but I’m warning you, don’t ever let this happen again.”
“Not happen again.”
“Good. I guess we understand each other.”
“We understand.”
“Very good. Now, if you coyotes will just stay where you are, I’ll slip out of here and get on my way.” I started backing away and ran into three big coyote bucks. “’Scuse me, boys, if you’ll just . . .”
“Hunk not understand.” Missy came over. “Hunk stay, become coyote warrior, prove himself many fight and marry Missy Coyote.”
“HUH?”
I shot a glance at Chief Gut, who was grinning and bobbing his head. “Yes, berry good you stay. Make outlaw, make warrior.”
“Make warrior? Well, I . . . I’ve always wanted . . . but I really have to . . .” I tried to ease around the three coyotes who were blocking my path. W
hen I moved, they moved. They didn’t intend to let me out of there, is the way it looked.
“Stay, not leave,” the chief went on. “Old coyote tradition, adopt brave dog, make brother.”
“Brave? Well, I can set you straight on that. You see . . .”
“Together we kill many chicken, eat cat every day, howl at moon, oh boy.”
“I don’t know about eating cat. I never . . .” I tried again to edge around those three bruisers, but they pushed me back.
“Dog not leave,” said the chief.
“Yes sir.”
“Maybe later marry daughter, have many pup. Everybody happy but Scraunch. Too bad. He not understand secret.”
There was no chance of me getting out of there, so I walked over to the chief. “You figgered out the secret?”
He laughed and nodded his head. “Oh yes, berry much.”
“What did you figger out?”
Gut glanced over his shoulders and brought his mouth right next to my ear. “Secret too secret to tell.”
“You got it, all right, you sure did.”
We had a good laugh, me and Old Gut, but I doubt that we were laughing about the same thing.
Chapter Nine: Me Just a Worthless Coyote
That business about the secret was the perfect stroke, and it probably saved my life. In desperation, I had lucked into it. Turns out that coyotes are superstitious animals, even though they’re known to be cunning and vijalent vijalunt vijallunt vijjullunt . . .
I don’t know how to spell that word. Spelling is a pain in the neck. I do my best with it, but I figger if a guy has tremendous gifts as a writer, his audience will forgive a few slip-ups in the spelling department.
I mean, it doesn’t take any brains to open a dickshunary and look up a word. Anybody can do that. The real test of a writer comes in the creative process. I try to attend to the big picture, don’t you see, and let the spelling take care of itself.
The Original Adventures of Hank the Cowdog Page 5
