Moonlight Madness

by John R. Erickson

  Hence, from the evidence at hand plus simple logic, I had concluded that these must be stray dogs from town. Pretty impressive, huh? You bet it was, and I even had a pretty good idea who these guys were, which is almost unbelievable that I could come up with such a huge amount of information in just a matter of minutes. Seconds, actually.

  Microseconds.

  Incredibly fast.

  So who were they? You’ll never guess. Don’t even try unless you’re hooked into Data Control, as I am. Just relax and let me handle the hard stuff.

  Do you remember Buster and Muggs and their gang of town thugs? Well, maybe you remember them but you never would have guessed that they were the very ones who were barking at something up in that chinaberry tree.

  Yes, they were back on the ranch and that meant nothing but trouble. I had gone into combat against those guys on several occasions and had given them the thrashing they so richly . . .

  Huh? Slim had opened his door?

  “Go git ’em, Hankie, run ’em off the ranch!”

  I, uh, went into Slow Wags on the tail section and gave him one of our standard looks which said, “Solly, me not spicka you longweech.” Which was true, or partly true.

  He hadn’t pronounced some of his words clearly, see, and words are very important to the, uh, over­all communication process.

  One garbled word can often change the . . .

  Okay, maybe I wasn’t anxious to go ripping out there and engage those four thugs in combat. It’s common knowledge that you should never go swimming right after lunch. It can lead to stomach cramps and drowning, and while this particular situation didn’t actually involve swimming, the principle remained the same . . . even though I hadn’t actually eaten any lunch.

  The point is that you should avoid violent exercise in the middle of the day.

  When Slim saw that I wasn’t going to offer myself as canyon fodder to Buster and Company, he pulled off the road and got out. “Come on, pooch, I’ll go with you.”

  That was more like it. I bailed out of the pickup and Slim and I headed for the chinaberry grove to give those four junior thugs the thrashing they so richly deserved.

  I was feeling somewhat bolder now and took the lead. Hence, I was the first to reach the scene and was the first to deliver an ultimatum to the hoodlums.

  “Okay, boys, I’ll keep it simple. Number One, you’re trespassing on my ranch. Number Two, you’d probably better leave immediately, if not sooner. And Number Three, what’s in the tree that you’re barking at?”

  You probably think that my sudden appearance on the scene caused them to flee in terror, right? Good guess, but that’s not exactly the way it happened.

  Chapter Three: I Teach the Thugs a Valuable Lesson

  They stopped barking and stared at me for a long moment. I noticed a smile curling on Buster’s lips—which wasn’t necessarily a good sign. I would have preferred something other than a smile, actually.

  “Say, Muggsie, who is this guy?”

  “It’s the jerk, boss, the same jerk who was the same guy we saw the last time we was out here.”

  Buster looked me over. “Oh yeah, the cowdog, the Head of Ranch Security. Maybe on the count of three, we all ought to faint and fall down, huh?”

  “I don’t think so, boss. I think we can take him, ’cause we got him outnumbered four-to-one, ’cause we got four of us and he’s only got one of him.”

  “You’re right, Muggsie. I never realized you was such a whiz at math.”

  “Thanks, boss. I ain’t really so good at math but I can count to four: one, three, seven, four.”

  Buster turned a sour look on his pal. “That’s a phone number, Muggsie. That ain’t how you count to four. Now, tell the cowdog to shove off before he gets on my noives.”

  “Okay, boss, I’ll told him, and he’ll be sorry he ever came around here and opened his big yap, won’t he? ’Cause we got no use for mutts with big yaps, do we, boss?”

  “Hey Muggs, tell the jerk, not me. I already know.”

  “Sure, boss, sure. I’ll told him.”

  Did I describe Muggs? He was a big heavyset bulldog type of guy with a jutting lower jaw. He looked pretty scary and he was bouncing up and down as though he could hardly wait to get in­volved in something destructive.

  He came bouncing over to me and breathed his hot breath in my face.

  “Okay, jerk, the boss says for you to shove off. Do you hear what I’m saying, jerk?”

  I stood my ground and tried to look Muggs in the eye, but that wasn’t so easy since he was bouncing up and down.

  “No, what are you saying?”

  “Okay, I’m saying . . . what I’m saying, and you’d better pay attention, jerk, what I’m saying is, the boss better shove off right now, ’cause if he don’t . . . hey boss, I think I forgot my lines.”

  Buster shook his head. “Keep it simple, Muggs. Just tell the jerk to shove off. How hard can that be?”

  “Okay, boss, I got it now.” He whirled back to me. “Okay, jerk, the boss says that you should shove off, and he wants to know how simple that can be.”

  “I see,” said I. “Does he need an answer right away?”

  Muggs stared at me. “I don’t know. Maybe I better ask. Hey boss, the jerk wants to know . . . I don’t know what he wants to know. Maybe you better talk to him yourself.”

  Buster came lumbering up and pushed Muggs aside. “Maybe I better. What’s the big idea, cowdog? Are you trying to make my guys look stupid or what?”

  “Not really. They do a pretty good job on their own.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, let me tell you something, pal. You being here, surrounded by us, sets a new record for stupid. See, all I have to do is give the word and my boys’ll tear you apart like a paper sack. On your own ranch.”

  Muggs was bouncing up and down again. “Yeah, jerk, we’ll tear up all the paper sacks we want to on your ranch and then we’ll spit out the pieces, and then we’ll spit on you too.”

  “Shat up, Muggs.” Buster turned back to me. “The point is, cowdog, we’re busy. We’ve got a coon up this tree, see? And we’re having fun. And when we’re having fun, we don’t wish to be distoibed, so maybe you’d like to shove off, huh?”

  I gave that a moment’s thought. “Thanks for the offer, but I think you guys had better do the shoving off. See, you’re trespassing on my ranch.”

  Buster turned to his pals. “Hey boys, the cowdog says we’re trespassing on his ranch.” Har, har, har. “And he thinks we should do the shoving off.” Har, har, har. “My boys think you’re a comedian, pal. They got a nice laugh out of that, and they’re fixing to get another laugh when they make pot roast out of you.”

  They hadn’t seen Slim yet, so they weren’t aware that I was holding a trump card. I remained calm and gave Buster a worldly smile, even though I was beginning to wonder what was taking my partner so long.

  “Buster, I’m feeling generous today. If you and your boys get off my ranch right now, we’ll drop all the charges and forget the whole thing.”

  “Yeah? And what if we don’t?”

  “If you don’t . . .” I glanced over my shoulder. Where was Slim? He’d been right behind me. “If you don’t, then . . . well, we can always postpone the deadline, I suppose.” I began backing away from them. “Or maybe I could, uh, shove off. You mentioned that as a possibility.”

  Buster shook his head. “Uh-uh. You had your chance to shove off but you chose to mouth off instead.”

  Muggs rushed up. “Yeah, jerk, you mouthed off and I heard it with my own eyes! And now you’re gonna get it, ain’t he, boss? Ain’t he, huh?”

  “That’s right, Muggsie. Okay, boys.” Buster jerked his head to the other two hoodlums and they moved around behind me, cutting off my escape route back to the pickup.

  Yikes, they had me surrounded, is what they had
me, and WHERE WAS SLIM? For Pete’s sake, I’d always known he was slow but this was ridiculous.

  Buster was grinning at me. “What do you say now, cowdog? You got any famous last words before I tell the boys to make meat loaf out of you?”

  “Well, let’s see here. Meat loaf’s not so good without ketchup, and I’ll bet you guys forgot the ketchup.”

  “That’s cute, cowdog. Anything else you want to say?”

  “Well, uh, would it change your mind if I told you that I know karate?”

  “Nah.”

  “And my paws are registered as deadly weapons?”

  “Nah. We’d probably think that you was just bluffing.”

  “I see.” My mouth was suddenly dry. I tried to swallow. “Should we discuss the Brotherhood of All Dogs?”

  “Nah. That brotherhood stuff don’t mean much to us. Where we come from, it’s dog eat dog.”

  “Right, but it’s possible that you misunderstood, Buster. See, I think it’s supposed to be ‘dog eat hot dog.’ You know, weenies. Weenies are, uh, very good for growing dogs.” Still no sign of Slim. “Why, if it was ‘dog eat dog’ that would make you guys cannibals, you might say, and . . . listen, fellas, I’m just sure we can work out some kind of deal here.”

  Buster shook his head. So did Muggs. So did the other two.

  “No deals,” said Buster, “and this is your last chance for last words.”

  I took a deep breath. “I see. Well, in that case, how about . . . REMEMBER THE ALAMO!!”

  And with that, I made a dive for Muggs. Heck, I didn’t have much to lose and figgered I might as well lay a few strokes on the biggest and ugliest of the four.

  I did manage to get in a few strokes, but very few. Muggs was a lot tougher than he was smart and my piledriver attack didn’t make much of an impression on him. He sort of stacked my pile­driver, you might say, and then proceeded to pound the everliving stuffings out of me.

  Yikes!

  And then the other two goons joined in and I was well on my way to the land of pot roast and meat loaf, when all at once the air was filled with flying rocks and sticks. By George, it was Slim!

  “Hyah! Go on, get out of here! Leave my dog alone!”

  He’d stopped to get a sticker out of his boot, don’t you see, and he’d arrived on the scene just in time to pull my chipmunks out of the fire.

  Chestnuts.

  Whatever.

  Just in time to save my skin, because those four thugs were well on their way to making a little greasy spot out of me.

  Muggs and the other two guys ran when the rocks started raining down, but Buster hated to leave, so Slim snatched up a nice big cottonwood limb and offered to break it over Buster’s head, which sort of turned the tide.

  Buster left, but not without a parting shot: “This ain’t the end of it, cowdog. We’ll try this again sometime, when your cowboy pal ain’t around.”

  I staggered to my feet and croaked a few barks at him. “Yeah, and when we do, I’ll make pot roast out of your meat loaf!”

  That didn’t make much sense, did it? But that’s the sort of parting shot a guy comes up with when he’s just been romped and stomped.

  Well, I was mighty glad to see old Slim, so I rushed over to him, jumped up, and gave him a Big Howdy. He stroked me on the head and scratched me behind the ears, both of which I like very much.

  “Boy, they chewed on you, didn’t they?”

  Yes, they did, although if he hadn’t broken up the fight, I might very well have . . . yes, I was pretty well chewed on.

  “I wonder what they were doing around this tree.”

  I barked. Coon! They’d treed a coon. I rushed to the base of the tree and gave it a sniffing, then lifted my head and issued several loud stern barks.

  Slim wandered over and looked up into the tree. “Well, I’ll be derned. There’s a baby coon sittin’ up there all by himself.”

  I knew it! See? And I’d found him.

  “And you know what I bet? I’ll bet his momma got run over in the night, and that’s her we saw on the side of the road. Them dogs found him and ran him up this tree. Hank, I’ll bet he’s an orphan, is what I bet.”

  Yes, probably so, and that was sure too bad.

  “And I’ll bet he needs a home.”

  Right, but not with anyone we knew. I mean, coons were . . . Slim wasn’t actually thinking of . . .

  Huh?

  He pulled on his gloves and climbed up the tree.

  Chapter Four: Eddy the Rac

  What?

  Surely he didn’t have it in mind to take that little coon home with US . . . did he? He had certainly left me with that impression and maybe we ought to pause here to discuss my position on coons.

  First off, let me make it clear that I was just as softhearted about orphans as the next guy, but my warm feelings stopped short of coons.

  Or put it this way. I felt sorry for the little guy, losing his ma and being left alone in the world, but I was pretty sure that our outfit didn’t need a pet coon.

  Hey, coons and dogs are natural enemies. They don’t like us and we don’t like them, and there are some very good reasons why dogs and coons don’t get along.

  Coons operate on the other side of the law, don’t you see. They’re one of the animals we dogs do battle with on a daily basis.

  “But they’re cute!” you say. Sure, right, they’re cute—until you run into one that weighs forty pounds, and you have no idea how destructive a forty-pound coon can be.

  They kill chickens. They steal eggs. They get into your feed barn and tear open sacks of feed and throw it all over the place. They get into the trash can and throw garbage all over the ranch.

  And speaking of trash, a bunch of coons can absolutely trash a cornfield or a watermelon patch. Oh yes, and they steal dog food. Did you know that? Yes, they love to steal dog food, and if the dog happens to object to that, they will fight over it.

  And yes, they’re pretty good fighters.

  Very good fighters.

  I, uh, never miss an opportunity to . . . that is, fighting coons is way down the list of things I enjoy doing. They don’t fight for fun, is what I’m saying. They’re very serious about fighting.

  The point is, coons are natural-born thieves and troublemakers, and we sure as thunder didn’t need one as a PET. Didn’t we have enough pets on the ranch? I mean, two dogs and one cat ought to be enough pets for . . .

  Not that I’m a pet. Far from it. Cowdogs work for a living and we earn our keep, but we didn’t need a coon, one of our enemies, living as a spy in our very mist.

  Midst, I suppose it is, a spy in our very midst.

  No, we didn’t.

  And I hoped that Slim was aware of all this and wouldn’t get carried away with a sudden wave of compassion for widows and orphans.

  Sure, he was cute. I could see the little snipe up there in the fork of the tree, looking down at us with his beady little eyes, and yes, he looked cute and pitiful and helpless and hungry and all that other stuff, but I happened to know from personal experience that cute little coons grow up to be not-so-cute BIG coons.

  And they’re nothing but trouble and I had no intention of . . . surely Slim had enough sense to realize . . .

  He reached out his hand and picked up the coon, who promptly tried to bite him. See? I knew it. I could have told . . .

  A moment later, Slim was on the ground again, holding the little beggar in one hand and petting him with the other.

  “There we go, that’s better. You don’t want to bite old Slim, do you? No, ’cause you’re an orphan now and you need a friend. Just take it easy, little guy.”

  It was then that Slim noticed me. Perhaps he saw, from the expression on my face, that I didn’t approve of this, not even a little bit.

  “Now Hank, you’re going to hav
e to make some adjustments to this deal. I know what you’re thinkin’ and I don’t like it. You might as well get used to this little feller, ’cause we’re takin’ him home.”

  I knew it! He’d gotten swept away by the Widows and Orphans Business.

  “Now, let’s introduce you two. What would be a good name for this little guy?”

  Mud.

  Trouble.

  Home Wrecker.

  Plague.

  “How about . . . how about Eddy? That sounds right. He looks kind of like an Eddy. Eddy the Rac. What do you think of that, Hankie?”

  I thought it was a pretty dumb name. I didn’t like the name, I didn’t like the coon, I didn’t like the idea, and Eddy and I were NEVER going to be pals, I could tell him that right now.

  “Hank, say hello to Eddy.”

  I would NOT say hello to a coon.

  “And Eddy, say hello to . . .”

  I guess that You-Hoodie hadn’t noticed me until that very moment, and when he did . . . whoa! You never heard such a deep and terrible growl come out of such an insignificant little ball of fur! I mean, we’re talking about major noise.

  Quick as a flash, he climbed up Slim’s arm, scampered across his shoulder, and took refuge behind his head. That’s right, he held onto Slim’s head and face just as though it were a tree trunk, knocked Slim’s hat on the ground, and changed the location of his glasses.

  And from that position, he glared down at me and growled some more. Oh, and then he started making that click sound that coons make when they’re upset.

  I can’t demonstrate that sound because . . . well, you couldn’t hear it in a book, and besides, dogs don’t click. It’s a very unusual sound and only a coon can make it, and when you hear it, you know that trouble is nearby.

  The thought occurred to me that I should bark. I mean, You-Hoodie had growled at me for no good reason, and I didn’t need to take that kind of trash off a sniveling little coon, and . . . hey, dogs are SUPPOSED to bark at coons! That was part of our job.