The wounded buzzard on c.., p.1
The Wounded Buzzard on Christmas Eve,
p.1
The Wounded Buzzard on Christmas Eve
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 Texas Monthly Press, 1989, and 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., 2011.
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © John R. Erickson, 1989
All rights reserved
library of congress cataloging-in-publication data
Erickson, John R., date
The wounded buzzard on Christmas Eve / John R. Erickson ; illustrations by Gerald L. Holmes.
p. cm.
Previously published: Houston, Tex. : Maverick Books, c1989. (Hank the Cowdog ; #13)
Summary: Accompanying Slim and Little Alfred into town on a Christmas shopping trip, Hank and Drover run into a wounded buzzard and a gang of toughs so mean and heartless, it’s a wonder they ever make it back to the ranch.
ISBN 0-14-130389-1 (pbk.)
[1. Dogs Fiction. 2. Christmas Fiction. 3. Ranch life—West (U.S.) Fiction. 4. West (U.S.) Fiction. 5. Humorous stories.] I. Holmes, Gerald L., ill. II. Title. III. Series: Erickson, John R., date Hank the Cowdog ; #13
[PZ7.E72556Wo 1999] [Fic]—dc21 99-19576 CIP
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
This one is for Gerald Holmes and Trev Tevis, who have contributed so much to the Hank adventure.
Contents
Chapter One An Unusually Exciting First Chapter, as You’ll See
Chapter Two A Gift for Me?
Chapter Three A Head-On Collision
Chapter Four A Moral Dilemmon: What Do You Do with a Wounded Buzzard?
Chapter Five I Discover Three Mysterious Camels
Chapter Six The Poodle Incident
Chapter Seven Leonard’s Saddle Shop
Chapter Eight Drover Snaps at Snowflakes
Chapter Nine Little Alfred Opens Pandowdy’s Box
Chapter Ten The Big Showdown with Buggs and Muster
Chapter Eleven Oh, It Was Santie Claus, Not Sandy Clothes
Chapter Twelve All’s Swell That Ends Swell
Chapter One: An Unusually Exciting First Chapter, as You’ll See
It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. You want to know all about the Wounded Buzzard, right? Such as his name and how he got wounded and other juicy morsels of the mystery? All in good time.
For the moment, let me set the scenery. It was a cold morning in December, the 24th of December to be exact, which just happened to be the day before Christmas—or, as we put it in the Security Business, “Christmas Eve.”
Drover and I had come in from the night shift and were settling into our gunnysack beds, hoping to catch a little sleep and get a break from the grueling routine of ranch work, when all of a sudden we heard a car coming toward the house.
I leaped to my feet and began to bark. Whoever these trespassers were, they had no business on our ranch . . . only it wasn’t a car.
Did you think it was a car? Not a bad guess, but it just happens that you’re wrong. As I went sprinting out to challenge the trespassers, I began piecing together a profile of this strange vehicle that was uncroaching on my territory.
Clue #1: It had a flatbed in the back. Cars don’t have flatbeds, see. They have back seats and back doors. That was my first clue that this was no ordinary car, but rather a pickup.
Clue #2: Lying upon and scattered about the flatbed were several items: a high-lift jack, a spare tire, several empty soda pop cans, a jumble of baling wire, and five or six empty gunnysacks. In other words, this alleged vehicle had all the markings of a cowboy rig.
Clue #3: But this was no ordinary cowboy’s pickup, for you see, instead of having your usual telescoping radio ariel . . . errial . . . heirial . . . aireal . . .
Instead of having the usual telescoping radio antenna, which would be standard on most ranch pickups, this one was equipped with a special, highly sensitive radar antenna, and we’re talking about a top secret electronic device that could see in the dark and pick up small objects up to a mile away.
The next question was, “Who or whom would need that kind of sophisticated electronic surveillance gear in a pickup truck?” The answer was obvious. What we had here was a CATTLE RUSTLER who had equipped his pickup with highly sensitive, top secret, sophisticated radar equipment, capable of spotting cattle out in the pasture even in the dead of night.
Well, you know where I stand on the issue of cattle rustlers. If there’s anything that gets me stirred up and brings out all of my inbred cowdog instinks, it’s cattle rustlers.
So it should come as no surprise that, while streaking out to intercept this villain, I not only barked but I put the entire ranch under Red Alert. That was a drastic measure I’ll admit, but it had to be done.
The key to the whole thing was that radar antenna. That was the key to the lock to the door to the dark cellar of . . . it was definitely the key.
At first glance, that radar dish resembled an ordinary coat hanger that had been wired to the stump of the radio antenna, but that could very well have been a clever disguise calculated to throw children, fools, and dogs untrained in security work off the . . .
Hold up. Cancel the Red Alert. Forget what I just said. Never mind.
Okay, what we had here was Slim driving his red, flatbed, four-wheel drive, Ford pickup into headquarters. Yes, I recognized the spare tire and the web of baling wire in the back end, and I remembered very clearly the day a bale of alfalfa hay had slipped off the top of the load and sheared off the radio antenna.
I also remembered very clearly that right after lunch that same day, Slim had wired a coat hanger onto the stump.
Okay. Drover had noticed none of this, of course, and now he was yipping his little head off.
“Save your breath, son, it’s only Slim.”
He stopped and squinted at the pickup, which had pulled up in front of the house. “Well I’ll be derned. I thought you said we were under Red Alert.”
“I said nothing of the sort. I said, ‘Drover, this pickup is red. Be on the alert.’”
He sat down and scratched his ear. “Huh. How come we’re supposed to be on the alert for red pickups?”
I walked over to him, shaking my head. “Drover, if you don’t know the answer to that one by this time, I don’t think it would do a lick of good to tell you.” He licked his chops. I glared at him. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Every time I use the word ‘lick,’ you lick your chops.”
“I don’t know. There’s this little voice in my head that says, ‘Drover, lick your chops.’ And I lick my chops. It just seems the right thing to do, I guess.”
“Well, it’s NOT the right thing to do. It’s inappropriate and irrational behavior. It’s very much like a nervous twitch, and it makes you look silly.”
Suddenly, his eyes twitched. “Oh my gosh, there’s that voice again, and this time it said, ‘Drover, twitch your eyes.’ I can’t help myself.”
“Tell the voice to shut up.”
“Shut up!”
“Watch your mouth, son, you’re speaking to the Head of Ranch Security.”
“I was talking to the voice.”
“Oh.”
“But it’s still there, telling me to twitch my eyes.”
“Very well, we’ll have to go to sterner measures. What we have here is a clear case of compulsory behavior. Look into my eyes and repeat after me.”
“Okay.”
“Repeat: ‘Voice of the mysterious twitch, voice of the irrational licking mechanism, away, away, be gone!’ That should do it.”
He tried it, and you’ll never believe this, but it worked!
“Gosh, Hank, that sure did the trick. The voice is gone, my twitch has disappeared, I’m a free dog again!”
“Good. Excellent. I haven’t used that trick in a long . . .”
All at once, I heard this voice in my head—a still, small, high-pitched, rather whiny voice that reminded me of a certain obnoxious cat. And the voice said, “Hankie, twitch your eyes.”
Drover was staring at me. “Did you just twitch your eyes?”
“What? Twitch my . . . don’t be absurd.”
“There it goes again. Hank, I think you’ve caught my twitch.”
But you know what? I HAD caught his derned twitch, even though it was impossible. And, fellers, I had a pretty severe case of it. I leaped into the air, scratched the side of my head, sprinted a short distance, and rolled in the snow.
And finally, the voice and the twitch went away. I stood up, shook myself, and returned to my assistant.
“Well, I licked that twitch.” Now get this. His tongue shot out and swept across his chops, and his eyes began to twitch. “But I can already see that you’re beyond help. You’re a compulsory nincompoop, Drover, and you might as well accept it.”
“Thanks, Hank. How come we’re supposed to be on the alert for red pickups?”
“Red pickups? What are you . . . oh yes, red pickups. It’s obvious, Drover, but if you wish, I’ll give you a hint.”
“Yeah, that might help.”
“In fact, I’ll give you more than a hint. I’ll give you the answer, and I’ll expect you to remember it always. We must be on the alert for red pickups because fire trucks are red.”
“Except for the tires.”
“Hush. Fire trucks also drive very fast. Hence, any red pickup we see could very well be an emergency vehicle streaking toward the scene of a fire. We should be on the alert and give it the right of way. That’s as clear as I can make it.”
“I still thought you said Red Alert.”
“I did NOT say anything about Red Alert. Just remember about the fire trucks, and if you have any further questions, don’t hesitate to shut your little trap.”
Having completed Drover’s lesson in Fire Truck Safety, I turned my attention to the yard gate. Slim was there, carrying a large box wrapped in red paper and crowned with a big green bow.
Obviously, this was no ordinary box. It had all the markings of a present. This being December, the month in which Christmas was scheduled to fall, the present could very easily have been a Christmas present.
The question was, for who or whom? I needed to check that out, for you see, although we dogs are not accustomed to receiving gifts and don’t really expect to be recognized for the many services we perform on the ranch, a small possibility existed that Slim was bringing the gift for . . . well, for us.
Or, to narrow it down even more, for ME.
Chapter Two: A Gift for Me?
Iwent padding up to Slim, just as he was going through the gate. I was glad to see the old rascal, and as you might expect, he was delighted to see me.
“Hi Hankie, what do you think of this snow?”
I jumped up on him and barked. He liked that. Things were definitely going my way, but just then a certain cat who had been loafing around on the front porch came streaking down the sidewalk.
I bristled and a growl began to rumble in my lower throat. “Scram, cat. This is my deal and you’re not invited.”
Would you believe it? Pete stuck out his tongue at me. “It’s a free country, Hankie, and I can go wherever I want.”
“Oh yeah?”
“And I want to say hello to Slim, and if you don’t like it, just go sit on a tack.”
“That’s cute, Pete, and speaking of tacks, you’re fixing to get yourself a full-scale attack that could land you in the hospital for about six months. In case you don’t remember me, I’m the guy who doesn’t take trash off the cats.”
As he passed in front of me, he flicked his stupid tail in such a way that it tickled the end of my nose, causing me to sneeze. That sneeze was all that saved his life. Had I not been seized by a sneeze at that precise moment, I would have . . . you can guess what I might have done, but I didn’t and couldn’t because I had to sneeze.
And by that time, the cat had prissed his way on down the sidewalk and had begun rubbing up against Slim’s legs. And purring. And grinning, just as though he and Slim were blossom buddies, which I happened to know they weren’t.
To his credit, Slim ignored the cat and said to me, “Guess what I brought for you, old pup.”
Oh ho! Yes sir, me and Slim had a good understanding and were the best of pals, and it was pretty clear by this time who was going to be the recipitant of that big lovely present.
He shouldn’t have done it. I mean, these cowboys don’t make much money, and any time they spend their hard-earned dollars on a gift, you know that they’ve made a sacrifice. And my opinion of Slim wouldn’t have changed one bit if he’d skipped the present and just given me a pat on the head.
I mean, friendship—the real thing, the genuine article—begins in the heart, not in the pocketbook, and even though you can pick a friend’s pocket, you can’t pick his heart.
That doesn’t make much sense.
On the other hand, the giving of gifts is a nice custom, especially when the receiver of the gift has proved that he deserves it, and if Slim wanted to reward me for a job well done, the least I could do was to accept it with grace. And humility.
Over the years, I have learned to accept good news as a legitimate part of life itself.
Slim set my package down in the snow and went back out the gate to his pickup, tripping over the cat on his first two steps. “Pete, get out of the way! You’re worse than a boa constrictor.”
Ho ho, hee hee, ha ha! I loved it. Slim was my kind of cowboy. Not only did he buy expensive presents for the Head of Ranch Security, but he didn’t like cats.
Well, there was my gift sitting right in front of me in the snow. Beautiful, gorgeous, red, shimmering, glistening paper, topped off with one of the biggest green bows I’d ever seen. Boy, was I honored and humbled!
Yeah, maybe he shouldn’t have done it, but dern it all, I couldn’t help believing in the warm deep cavities of my heart that he had put his money on a winner.
And just to be sure that Drover and Pete didn’t get any strange ideas about whose present this was, I figgered it might be a good idea for me to put my mark on it, which I did.
You know, I’d marked a zillion tires in my career, but this was the first time I’d ever been given the opportunity—nay, the honor—of putting my mark on a Christmas present.
Just then, High Loper came out of the house and down the sidewalk, and Slim returned from the pickup. Loper glanced down at the present.
“What’s that?”
Slim cracked a smile. “Oh, a little something for you.”
HUH? Who?
“Merry Christmas, pardner. It ain’t much, but for what you’re payin’ me, you don’t deserve a whole heck of a lot.” They both laughed at that. “And Hankie, here’s your Christmas present. Merry Christmas, old pup.”
And with that, Slim handed me a . . . AN OLD STEAK BONE? Surely there was some . . . I sniffed it, wagged my tail, gave him a look that I’m sure revealed the depths of my . . .
“Well, if you don’t want it, I’ll give it to Drover. Come here, Stub-tail, here’s your Christmas from old Slim.”
Do you think Mr. Greedy turned it down? No sir. He snatched it out of Slim’s fingers, darted a few feet away, turned his back on me, and began chewing and crunching and slurping and making other disgusting sounds.
Oh yes, and he even growled, as though he thought that I might lower myself to swagger over and take the bone away from him.
Which wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility, but it happened that I was still so shocked and hurt over this other deal . . . oh well.
“Well, by gollies,” said Loper, “I didn’t expect you to get me anything.” He picked up the present. “But since you did, I sure . . .”
He frowned, looked down at his hand, and wiped it on his jeans. “I appreciate it. Thanks.”
“You’re sure welcome.”
“Only now,” Loper said with a grin, “I guess you’ll expect me to buy you something.”
Slim rolled his eyes. “Well, that would be nice, and now that you mention it, I’ve been looking at that new A-fork saddle in Leonard’s Saddle Shop and . . .”
“Just keep lookin’ and maybe old Sandy Clothes will get it for you. I won’t, but he might.”
(Let me interrupt here to point out that this conversation, which appeared on the surface to be nothing but idle chatter between cowboys, gave me my first introduction to a certain character called “Sandy Clothes.” At the time, the name meant nothing to me, but as you will see . . . well, you will see when it’s time for you to see, and that’s all I can reveal at this time.)
