The chief was still cackling at his own wonderful story when the old lady returned, dragging in some horrible stinking something or other.
I turned to Missy. “What’s that?”
“Aged mutton.”
“Aged mutton?”
She nodded and smiled. “Special feast make Hunk forget sadness.”
Aged mutton. No doubt it had been buried for a while. It was green, dotted here and there with white spots which turned out to be maggots. The smell alone could have taken the paint off a corral fence. The taste of such rot was too horrible to imagine.
The old lady dragged it up and dropped it right at my feet. When she smiled at me, she looked an awful lot like her daughter, except she had several teeth missing and some of that green stuff hanging from her lower lip.
“Meat age for many month, just right for Hunk now.”
The old man threw back his head, let out a howl, and dived into it. The old lady did the same. Missy did the same. I took a deep breath, said a little prayer, and dove in too.
Let’s don’t go into any details. It was bad. It was so bad that there are no words to describe it. I’ll say no more.
An hour later, I was lying down, with my head over a cliff. I had emptied my body of everything but blood and a few bones. Missy stood over me, stroking my brow. She had been very nice about it. They all had been, even my future mother-in-law. She had decided that I had drunk some brackish water and that’s what had made me sick.
“Hunk feel better now?”
“Feel better, sort of.”
“Hunk like coyote feast, oh boy?”
“Oh boy.”
“Now Hunk make ready for big raid?”
I raised up my head. “Huh?”
That was the first I had heard about the raid. This was going to be my big chance to prove to Missy’s ma and pa that I was worthy of their daughter.
Scraunch was putting the deal together, a raid on the ranch.
Chapter Eleven: The Attack on the Ranch
Along about dark the coyote village came to life. Everybody was excited.
“Fresh chicken, fresh cat!” they shouted. “Oh boy!”
Even the kids were excited. They chased each other around, practiced howling, and played a game called “Get the Dog.” The idea of the game was that two kids played coyotes and one played the guard dog. The coyotes lured the dog out into a fight and then jumped him.
I had played that game myself, only when I’d played it it hadn’t been a game, and I’d been on the dog side. I’d never thought it was much fun either.
After the sun went down, Scraunch climbed up on a pile of rocks and gave a speech to the whole village. He was a firebrand and a rubble-rouser, and he preached the kind of hot gospel them coyotes wanted to hear.
“Jackrabbit run too fast, make coyote tired to catch. Mouse run down hole, coyote have to dig, make tired too. But chicken . . . chicken easy! Chicken nice and fat, sit on nest, not fight. Chicken plump and juicy. This night, everybody eat chicken!”
A cheer went up from the crowd. I was standing beside Missy, and she whooped and hollered along with the rest of them.
Scraunch waited for the cheering to die down and glanced over at me. “Ranch not have big guard dog now, only little white dog with cut-off tail. Maybe this night we kill dog too.”
Another cheer went up. Scraunch watched me with a half-smile on his face. When I didn’t cheer with the rest of them, he said, “What you say, Hunk? Maybe you help kill little white dog, huh?”
“Maybe so, Scraunch, maybe so.”
Then he led the crowd in singing, “Me just a Worthless Coyote,” which was everybody’s favorite song and sort of the coyote national anthem. I noticed that it brought tears to old Chief Gut’s eyes. Guess it brought back memories of his younger days.
When the song started, Rip and Snort came over to where I was and wanted to harmonize, just the way we did the night we went carousing. I tried but didn’t feel much like singing.
But Rip and Snort bellered and howled and had themselves a big time. They were all excited about the raid, and they got into an argument over which one was going to give Drover the worst whipping. Listening to them snarl at each other, I got a funny feeling about good old boys. They have a way of changing into mean old boys and pretty quick.
The singing stopped and it was time to start the raid. Scraunch led the whole village in a howl, then those of us who were going on the raid lined up in a single file. Missy came over to tell me good-bye.
“Hunk have good fight, bring back fat chicken, prove to everybody that he good coyote.”
“Thanks, Missy, I’ll do my best.”
“Then we marry, have seven-eight little pup.”
“Seven or eight?”
She gave a yip and a howl. “Maybe nine-ten, oh boy!”
She nuzzled me under the chin, stepped back, and gave me a smile. Geeze, she had a pretty face, but you know what? When she smiled, I saw her mother’s face and remembered that aged mutton. It derned near ruined the occasion for me.
Scraunch came down the line, checking things out and giving orders to the men. When he came to me, he gave me a hard look.
“Better not make mistake. Scraunch watch close.”
“You do that, Scraunch. You might learn something.”
He gave me a sneer and went back to the front. With the rest of the village cheering, we marched down the canyon rim in a trot.
Once we left the village, Scraunch passed the order for silence. Down in the valley we got on a cow trail and followed it south toward the creek.
I couldn’t help wondering where Drover was and what he was doing right now. Had he heard the singing? Did he run to the machine shed or was he out on patrol? I hoped, for his sake, that he was in the backest corner of the shed, ’cause these coyotes were in a dangerous mood.
As we slipped along through the night, I started putting a few things together. It was pretty clear by this time that Scraunch was the one who had been responsible for the chicken murders. He’d been slipping down there by himself and killing one or two a night, and now he’d decided to launch a full-scale invasion and share the spoils of war with the rest of the coyotes.
Funny, I’d solved the case, only now I was working for the other side. Life sure does play tricks on a guy, makes it awful hard to plan for the future. Growing up, I never would have dreamed that I’d end up a chicken-killer. I was kind of glad Ma wasn’t around to see it.
About two hundred yards north of the ranch, Scraunch called a halt and gave the final orders for the attack. He told Rip and Snort to circle around and come in from the south, and sent another couple of guys over to the west.
He hadn’t given me any orders, and that was good. I figgered I could lay low, stay out of the way, and show up when all the dust cleared.
“You.”
I looked around. “Huh?”
“You go with Scraunch. We get little white dog. Find out how bad you want sister.”
“Well uh, surely I don’t deserve such an honor.”
“Not talk, only fight.”
The others left, and me and Scraunch started sneaking toward the ranch. I felt sick. Things had gotten out of control. I hadn’t wanted it to happen this way, me against my old buddy Drover. In his own bungling way, Drover was a nice dog. We’d had our squabbles and differences, but we’d had some good times too.
About twenty-five yards out, Scraunch stopped and dropped down into the grass. I squinted into the darkness and saw Drover standing beside the northeast corner of the machine shed. Just as you might expect, he wasn’t looking in our direction. The little runt had no idea what was fixing to break loose.
A laugh growled in Scraunch’s throat. “This easy. Dog stupid.”
I couldn’t argue with him. Facts is facts.
We cra
wled forward another ten, fifteen yards. Then, off to the south, Rip and Snort raised a howl. Drover jumped up in the air and faced the south. I could see that he was shivering. Then the boys off to the west raised a howl, and Drover faced that direction.
Scraunch growled and Drover faced us. His head was cocked sideways and one ear stood up. That meant he still didn’t see us.
But he was beginning to get the picture. The ranch was surrounded. I kept waiting for him to run, but he didn’t.
Scraunch pushed himself up out of the grass. “You go first. I watch.”
“Who me? Well uh, seems to me that . . .”
The hair went up on the back of his neck and there was murder in those yellow eyes. “You go first or I cut throat right here!”
I could tell he wasn’t kidding. “I just thought . . . there’s no need to . . . I see what you mean, yes, I’ll go first.”
I stood up. Scraunch threw back his head and let loose the bloodiest howl I ever heard (sent shivers all the way down to the end of my tail, is how frightful it was). He gave me a shove and the attack was on.
Drover heard us coming. He started yipping and jumping up and down, but he stood his ground. I could hear myself talking: “Run, Drover, while there’s still time.” My voice got louder. “You got no chance, Drover, don’t try to be a hero.”
Next thing I knew, I was yelling. “Drover, run for the shed! You’re outnumbered, they’ll kill you, run for your life!”
The little mutt was so scared he was spinning in circles and jumping up and down at the same time. But he still didn’t leave his post.
By this time I could see Rip and Snort sneaking up behind him, the moonlight glinting off their teeth and eyes. They didn’t look like good old boys any more. They had murder on their minds.
Behind me, Scraunch was screaming, “Kill, kill!”
All at once, something snapped inside my head. I felt wild and crazy. I headed straight for Drover. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes. He was more than scared. He was bewildered, didn’t know what was happening to him.
He turned to face my charge. As I flew past him and took aim for Snort, I yelled, “This is it, son, hell against Texas! Fight for your life!”
I caught Snort by surprise and sent him rolling down the hill. That gave me just enough time to catch Rip as he was making a dive for the back of Drover’s neck. Hit him in midair and knocked him on his back.
By this time Scraunch had plowed Drover under and was standing on top of him, ready to tear out his throat. I lit right in the middle of his back, got a bite on his right ear, and started chewing.
That took his mind off Drover. He jumped straight up and pitched me off. I got to my feet and he got to his feet, and we faced each other.
“Call off your boys, Scraunch. Let’s make it me and you, one on one.”
He grinned. “Chicken dog die for this.”
I had a little piece of his ear in my mouth, and I spit it out at his feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a light come on in the house. That was my only hope. If High Loper didn’t hurry and get his pants on and grab his gun, I was a dead dog.
“Seems you lost a piece of one ear, Scraunch. If you’ll come a little closer, I’ll work on that other one so’s they’ll match.”
Scraunch cut his eyes toward Rip and Snort.
“Get him.”
Rip and Snort gave me kind of a mournful look. It was decision time. They had to choose between an old drinkin’ buddy and their own flesh and blood.
“Get him!”
They licked their lips and swallered and glanced at each other. And they chose flesh and blood. They started creeping toward me.
“Drover,” I said in a low voice, “keep ’em off my back, son, or we’re finished.”
Drover squeaked. He was too scared to talk.
Rip and Snort and the other two coyotes started closing in on me.
“Hunk stupid dog,” said Scraunch. “Stupid dog pay with life.”
“You could be right, Scraunch, but you’ve got it to do.”
We was totally surrounded and it was every man for himself. I figgered I might as well leave this old life with another piece of Scraunch’s ear, so I made a dive at him.
We collided and went up on our hind legs. I boxed him across the nose and he boxed me right back. Made my eyes water. I clawed his hip and he clawed mine. I went for his ear and he went for mine. We chewed and snapped and snarled and growled.
I think old Scraunch was a little surprised that a cowdog could give him such a tussle.
I was holding my own until they jumped me from behind, two or three of ’em, didn’t get a good count, but it was plenty enough to finish me off.
They wrestled me down, throwed me on my back, and pinned me to the ground. Scraunch walked up and straddled me, showing his big, sharp teeth.
“Now you die.”
He went for my throat and I heard Saint Peter blow his horn.
Chapter Twelve: The Exciting Conclusion
Saint 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 mo
ving, 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.”
The Original Adventures of Hank the Cowdog Page 7
