The case of the missing.., p.1
The Case of the Missing Cat,
p.1
The Case of the Missing Cat
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, 1990.
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.
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © John R. Erickson, 1990
All rights reserved
Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-115-5
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
Dedicated to the memory of my father, Joseph W. Erickson
Contents
Chapter One Pete’s Con Game
Chapter Two Pete Makes a Foolish Wager
Chapter Three The Case of the Lumber-Pile Bunny
Chapter Four The Bunny Cheats and Lies
Chapter Five Humble Pie Stinks
Chapter Six The Case of the Disheartened Chicken
Chapter Seven Bloody Writing on the Wall
Chapter Eight The Healing Waters of Emerald Pond
Chapter Nine Pete’s Mindless Senseless Vandalism of a Sheet
Chapter Ten The Infamous Black Hole of Mustard
Chapter Eleven Total Happiness Without Pete
Chapter Twelve Happy Endings Aren’t as Simple as You Might Think
Chapter One: Pete’s Con Game
It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. Have I ever mentioned that I don’t like cats? I don’t like cats.
And the cat I don’t like the most, the cat I dislike with my whole entire body and soul, is a certain selfish, sneaking, lazy, never-sweat character on my ranch named Pete the Barncat.
You see, it was Pete who lured me into the Case of the Lumber-Pile Bunny. That was the straw that broke the camel’s tooth and set my wicked mind to plotting ways of . . .
Hmmm. How can I say this so that it doesn’t sound crude and tacky? I decided, don’t you see, that our ranch would be a happier and more wholesome place if Pete were suddenly to . . . well, vanish, you might say. Without a trace.
No clues. No suspects. No way that Sally May could connect me with the, uh, tragedy.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Better start at the beginning.
It was mid-morning, fall of the year, as I recall. I was making my way around the yard fence, heading toward the front of the house, when I encountered Pete the Barncat and my assistant, Mister Half-Stepper, Mister Sleep-Till-Noon, Mister Look-at-the-Clouds. Drover.
They were sitting across from one another, looking down at the ground between them. Their behavior struck me as suspicious. I mean, at a distance of ten or twelve feet I could see nothing on the ground between them—nothing but dirt, that is—so why were they looking at dirt?
I put my primary mission on temporary hold, altered course, and went over to check this thing out.
“Number One, what’s going on around here? Number Two, you’re supposed to be resting up for night patrol, Drover. Number Three, mingling with cats is against regulations.”
Drover’s head came up and he gave me his patented silly grin. “Oh, hi Hank, we’re playing checkers.”
“Playing checkers?” I moved closer. “It’s odd that you should say that, Drover, because I don’t see either a checkerboard or checkers.”
“That’s because we’re playing Checkerless Checkers, aren’t we, Pete?”
The cat grinned and nodded. “That’s right, Hankie. We’re playing Checkerless Checkers. Want to play?”
“Negative. Not only do I not want to play Checkerless Checkers, I don’t believe there’s any such game. And if there’s no such game, I refuse to play it, period.”
Pete shrugged and turned his attention to the ground. He moved his paw across the phony so-called “checkerboard,” tapping it in three different places.
“Sorry, Drover, but I just jumped three of your men.”
Drover squinted at the ground. “Oh darn. I guess I shouldn’t have made that move. Did I lose another game?”
Pete nodded and grinned. “Um-hmmm, you did, but you’re getting better all the time. You sure you don’t want to play the winner, Hankie?”
I pushed Drover aside and moved in closer. “Okay, I’ve seen enough to know that there’s something fishy going on here. Drover, where did you learn this so-called game?”
“Well, let’s see. Right here on the ranch.”
“From who or whom did you learn it?”
“Well, let’s see. From Pete.”
“In other words, your only knowledge of the rules of this so-called game came from Pete, is that correct?”
“Well, let’s see.” He squinted one eye and rolled the other one around. “I guess that’s right.”
I began pacing. “Very good. Next question. Are you telling me that you can remember every move in a checker game?”
“Well, I can’t but Pete can.”
“How do you know that?”
“He told me so.”
“I see.” I glanced from one face to the other. The pieces of the puzzle began falling into place. “One more question, Drover, and I’ll have this thing wrapped up. Which of you has won more games?”
Drover looked at the sky. “Let’s see. Pete won the first one. And Pete won the second one. But Pete won the fourth one. And then Pete won the fifth one.”
“Hold it right there. You failed to mention who won the crucial third game.”
“I think Pete won that one.”
“Hm, yes.”
I paced around the two of them. Drover watched me until his head went as far to the south as it could go without coming unscrewed, and at that point he fell over backward.
“Get up, Drover, and listen carefully. I’ve found a pattern here.”
He struggled back to a sitting position. “Oh good.”
“Does it strike you as odd that Pete has won five out of five games? Did it ever occur to you that Pete might be cheating?”
“Oh heck no. We promised that we wouldn’t cheat.”
Pete was still grinning and had begun to purr. “That’s right, Hankie. We both promised not to cheat, because cheating isn’t nice.”
Suddenly I stopped pacing and whirled around. “It’s all clear now, Drover, and I can tell you what’s been going on. You’ve been duped. This cat lured you into a game you couldn’t possibly win, and he has cheated you.”
“But he promised . . .”
“Never mind what he promised. Cats always cheat. You can write that down in your little book.”
“I don’t have a little book.”
“Get one. I’m ashamed of you, Drover. Only a chump would play Checkerless Checkers with a cat.”
“Well . . . we had fun.”
“Exactly, and having fun is one of the many things we’re not allowed to do in the Security Business. Speaking of which, since you’ve spent most of the morning goofing off, why don’t you go down to the corrals and check things out.”
“We can’t play another game?”
“That’s correct, because I’m closing it down. This cat is through, finished.”
“Oh drat. I was just catching on.”
“Go! And I’ll expect a full report in twenty minutes.”
Little Drover went padding down toward the gas tanks. When he was gone, I turned to Pete. He was doodling around on the so-called checkerboard with his left front paw. His tail stuck straight up in the air and the end of it was twitching back and forth.
“Pete, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, taking advantage of a dunce.”
“It’s hard to fool you, Hankie.”
“Not just hard, Pete. Impossible. I had your con game figgered out the minute I walked up here. Playing checkers without checkers! I can’t believe you talked the poor little mutt into that.”
“You never know until you try.”
I studied the cat for a long time. “Pete, there’s a certain understanding between creeps like you and a dog like me. It’s like cops and robbers. Only the cops know how good the robbers are in their shabby work, and only the robbers know how good the cops are.”
“That’s right, Hankie. You understand me and I understand you.”
“Exactly. We’re on opposite sides of the law, we’re sworn enemies, and yet we can’t help admiring each other’s work.”
“Um-hm. I learned long ago that I couldn’t put anything over on the Head of Ranch Security.
“Exactly. We’ll never be friends, Pete. Fate has taken care of that. But in a crazy sort of way . . . what are you doing?”
He had swept his paw over the so-called checkerboard, and now he appeared to be . . . I wasn’t sure what he was doing.
“Oh I’m through with the checker game. I know it won’t work on you.”
“That’s correct, but what are you doing?”
After clearing the board of so-called checkers, he appeared to be . . . setting it up again?
He looked at me with his lazy cattish eyes. “I thought I might play a game of chess—with myself.”
“Chess?”
“That’s right. You’ve probably never heard of it. It’s a very complicated game that requires concentration and . . .”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Pete, is it possible that you think I don’t know about chess? The ancient game of war, invented thousands of years ago by the Balonians? Which requires cunning and intelligence? Hey, I’ve got bad news for you, cat. I know ALL about chess. Ask me anything.”
“Black or white?”
“Huh?”
“Would you rather play black or white?”
“Oh. Black, I suppose. It matches the color of my heart.”
“All right. I’ll open with pawn to king four.”
“Oh yeah?” I hunkered down and studied the board. “Well, that doesn’t scare me at all, cat, and I’ll move this little fawn out here.”
“It’s a pawn, Hankie, not a fawn.”
“Whatever. There’s my move. Weed it and reap.”
Five minutes later, I was in deep trouble, I had lost three bishops, one knight, and my castle was in check. And at that very moment, I realized Drover was standing beside me.
He stared at us. “What are you doing?”
I looked at Drover. I looked at Pete. I looked down at the empty space of dirt between us. It occurred to me that . . . I swept my paw across the so-called chessboard, erasing all traces of the so-called game.
“We were studying the dirt, Drover, talking soil samples, you might say, and what are you doing back so soon?”
“I just wanted to tell you that I saw a cottontail rabbit. He was eating grass right in front of our gunnysack beds.”
“You’re bothering me with a report about a rabbit? I’m a busy dog, Drover, and I have no time for . . .”
It was then that I realized that Pete had disappeared. I glanced around and saw him—creeping down the hill TOWARD MY COTTONTAIL RABBIT!
Chapter Two: Pete Makes a Foolish Wager
It didn’t take me long to catch up with Pete. “Hold it right there, cat. It appears to me that you’re moving toward a certain cottontail rabbit. Before you get yourself into some serious trouble, I should point out that the alleged rabbit belongs to me.”
“Oh really? I thought you were too busy for rabbits, Hankie.”
“I was misquoted. What I meant to say was that the rabbit belongs to me and you can keep your paws off of him.”
“Now Hankie, be reasonable. You don’t have any use for a rabbit.”
“Oh yeah? Says who?”
“In the first place, he’s not bothering anyone. He’s just a cute, innocent little bunny who’s eating grass.”
“Yeah, but it’s MY grass, see, and he’s down there by MY gunnysack and he doesn’t have a permit to eat my grass in the vicinity of my gunnysack.”
Pete grinned and licked his front paw with a long stroke of his tongue. “And in the second place, it’s a well-known fact that a dog can’t catch a rabbit.”
I stared at the cat and began laughing. “A dog can’t catch a rabbit? Is that what you just said?”
“Um-hmm, because a dog goes about it the wrong way. Instead of being patient and stalking the rabbit, as a cat would do, a dog just blunders in and starts chasing.”
“Blunders in and starts chasing, huh? Go on, cat, I’m dying to hear the rest of this.”
“Mmmm, all right. And once the rabbit starts running, the game is over because a dog can’t catch a rabbit on the run. That’s a well-known fact.”
“No, Pete, that’s well-known garbage, just the sort of half-truth and gossip that a cat would spread around. What you’re saying is so outrageous that I refuse to discuss it any more.”
“Whatever you think, Hankie.”
“Except to repeat what I’ve already said: Leave my rabbit alone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got . . .”
“I’ll bet you can’t catch him.”
“. . . two weeks’ work lined up for . . . what did you just say?”
“I’ll bet you can’t catch him.”
I lowered my nose until it was only inches away from the cat’s face. “You want to bet me that I can’t catch a sniveling little cottontail rabbit? On my ranch? When I’m Head of Ranch Security?”
“Um-hmmm.”
My first thought was to meet his challenge head-on, take him up on his foolish bet, and settle the matter once and for all time. However . . .
It was too easy. Something was wrong here.
See, when you’ve worked around cats as much as I have, you develop a certain degree of caution. They’re stupid animals, but they’re stupid in a cunning sort of way.
They have a talent for twisting things around. It’s a minor talent, it doesn’t compare at all with the larger and grander talents you’ll find in even your average breed of dogs, and I’m talking about, oh, just to mention a few: good looks, high intelligence, courage, tremendous physical strength, good looks, speed, quickness, determination, endurance, and devilish good looks.
I must give Beulah the Collie most of the credit for spotting those qualities in . . . well, ME, you might say. Otherwise I might never have known they were there, which would have been a real shame.
Where was I?
Funny how Beulah seems to creep into my thoughts, but I was talking about something else, seems to me, and . . .
Oh yes, cats. They have this minor talent for twisting things around, and over the years I’ve learned that when a cat makes a simple statement or says something that appears on the surface to make sense, it’s time to pull back and study the deal from a different prospectus.
I walked a short distance away and switched over into Heavy Duty Analysis Mode.
Pete had just offered to make a foolish wager with me, one which he had no chance of winning. Now, why would a cat do such a thing?
Answer #1: The cat is just dumb, and you must expect a dumb cat to make dumb mistakes.
Answer #2: The cat is dumb, but not quite as dumb as he appears to be, in which case he should be approached with caution.
Answer #3: The cat is actually pretty smart and . . . I didn’t need to follow this one out any further because it was too outrageous to consider. I mean, this was the same cat who had invented a nonexistent game called “Checkerless Checkers,” right? Nothing more needed to be said.
And so, having dismissed Answer #3 in record time, I ran Answer #1 and Answer #2 through my data banks. What the printout revealed was a confirmation of Answer #1, which I had suspected all along.
Pete had made a dumb mistake and had thrown down the goblet, so to speak, and challenged me to enter into a foolish wager. Foolish for Pete, that is.
Okay, the only question left to ask was, “Would Hank the Cowdog consider taking unfair advantage of a dumb cat?” And I didn’t need to run that one through the data banks.
In a word YES. I would, with all my heart and soul.
Stealing glances as I paced back and forth, I studied the cat, measured him, sized him up, and prepared my next move. A strategy began to take shape in my mind, and at that point I was ready to respond.
I swaggered back over to him. “Okay, I’ll take you up on your bet, kitty, but only if there’s something at stake.”
He looked up at me with his big cattish eyes. “Hmmm. You mean something valuable?”
“Exactly. I don’t enter into bets with cats for my health. If you can’t put up something that makes this deal worth my time and trouble, I’m not interested.”
“My goodness, Hankie, you get pretty serious about these things, don’t you?”
