The Case of the Black-Hooded Hangmans 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: 2015-05-06T22:14:37+00:00

Chapter Eight: Yikes! A Haunted House!

Little Alfred, who was serving as the official tracker on this expedition, led us across the creek. Drover and I followed.

I waded through the water. Drover hopped across because . . . well, he doesn’t like water. He reminded me of a grasshopper, the way he hopped around.

On the south bank, I returned to the interrogation.

“Let’s see, where were we?”

“Counting cornbread. I think.”

“No, I said that the cornbread didn’t count.”

“Yeah, arithmetic is tough.”

“Speaking of ticks, I haven’t seen any lately.”

“No, it’s winter.”

“Exactly.” We walked along in silence. “Nice day.”

“Yeah. It’s starting to snow again.”

“That’s true, which explains why all these snow­­flakes are falling from the sky.” Another long silence. “Drover, I have a feeling that something has happened to this conversation.”

“I wonder what it could be!”

“I’m not sure. I just have this feeling . . . okay, I’ve got it. We were doing a work-up on the bus! I waited for him to pick it up from there. “You do remember the bus, don’t you?”

“Well . . . not really. What bus?”

“The bus, Drover, the bus that came through the ranch just a short while ago.”

“I’ll be derned. What did it look like?”

“Well, let’s see. It had eight wheels, as I recall, and it was big. A huge bus. Red, bright red.”

“I’ll be derned. Was anybody on it?”

“Hmmm, let’s see here. That’s an obvious question. Funny how you don’t notice those details in the midst of . . . a driver. There must have been a driver, Drover.”

“Hello.”

“What?”

“Someone called my name.”

I stuck my nose in the runt’s face and gave him some fangs to look at. “I called your name. Is it possible that your mind had wandered, that you weren’t listening to my description of the . . . wait a minute. Why am I describing the bus?”

“Well . . . I don’t know.”

“YOU’RE the one who saw the stupid bus, so you ought to be the one describing it.”

“I’ll be derned.”

We came to a halt. I stared into the great empti­ness of his eyes. “You DID see a bus, didn’t you?”

“Well . . . I don’t think so. What would a bus be doing out here on the ranch?”

“Drover, sometimes I . . .”

I couldn’t find the words to express the scrambled feeling in my head, so I started walking again. I caught up with Little Alfred. I threw myself into the task of following the trail. I had to do something to clear the fog out of my brain.

Here he came, padding along and snapping at an occasional snowflake. “What you doing, Hank?”

“I’m working, Drover, doing my job, following tracks.”

“Oh good.” He stared down at the trail. “Are those bus tracks?”

My head shot up and I fixed him with a gaze of coldest steel. “Okay, that’s it, that’s all I can stand. Drover, I have no choice but to put you on report for the rest of the day. You get three Shame-on-You’s and I forbid you ever to say the word bus again.

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