The Case of the Swirling Killer Tornado by John R. Erickson

Author:John R. Erickson
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: cowdog, Hank the Cowdog, John R. Erickson, John Erickson, ranching, Texas, dog, adventure, mystery, Hank, Drover, Pete, Sally May
Publisher: Maverick Books, Inc.
Published: 2015-05-06T22:09:36+00:00

Chapter Eight: A Mysterious Phone Call

I sniffed the air again, just to be sure.

“Drover, all at once I smell bacon.”

“Yeah, me too. I wonder what it could be.”

“I think it could be bacon, Drover, because bacon smells exactly like bacon.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that too. Funny how that happens.”

“You won’t think it’s so funny if I find out that you ate my property. Did you just eat some bacon?”

“Well, let’s see here. Yes, I did but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t yours. It was just lying around under the covers. I don’t think it belonged to anybody. It was lost.”

I felt my temper rising. “It was lost? What kind of clam-brained answer is that? You knew exactly whose bacon that was and you ate it anyway.”

“Well, I thought . . .”

“You’ll pay for this, Drover. If we ever get out of this house alive, you will pay a terrible price for your greed and gluttony and stealing from your very best friend in the whole world. How can you stand yourself?”

“I don’t know. I smell pretty bad when I’m wet.”

“That smell comes from your rotten sense of morals, Drover. Who would steal two slices of bacon from his best friend?”

“Well, let’s see. Pete would.”

“Yes, of course, but he’s a cat. Is that your standard of behavior? Do you want to be a cat when you grow up?”

“Not really.”

“Well, you just might, pal. Were you aware that researchers have found a direct link between bacon and cats?”

“No, I missed that.”

“They’ve found—and this is a laboratory test, Drover, solid scientific evidence—they’ve found that dogs who eat two or more slices of bacon often turn into cats.”

“Oh my gosh!”

“And the group with the highest risk included dogs with sawed-off stub tails.”

“Oh my gosh!”

“Yes. You’re sorry now, aren’t you? Huh? You may have just thrown your whole life away, Drover, and for what?”

“I don’t want be a cat. I don’t even like cats. I’d hate myself if I turned into a cat.”

“Well, that may be your punishment, son. I’m sorry.”

“You couldn’t help it.”

“Thanks. Let’s get out of here.”

Little Alfred was already down on the floor and creeping toward the kitchen. I smothered my anger and outrage, hopped off the bed, and followed him through the gloomy darkness.

We sneaked our way through the bedroom and into the kitchen. In the middle of the kitchen, Little Alfred stopped, placed a finger over his lips, and said, “Shhh.”

I don’t know why he felt the need to tell us to shush. We were operating in Stealthy Crouch Mode and couldn’t have moved any silenter if we’d been flies wearing . . . something. Ballet slippers, I suppose.

But he stopped in the middle of the kitchen—Alfred did—and gave us the shush signal, and then we began the last leg of our dangerous journey to the back door.

We had gone no more than two or three steps when, suddenly and all of a sudden, the creepy dark silence of the night was ripped and torn by the loud ring of a bell.

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