The Case of the Midnight Rustler 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: 2015-05-08T21:09:43+00:00

Chapter Seven: Slim Gets Soaked Because of a Faulty Tent Rope

We needn’t go into gory details. I had become one sick puppy and I didn’t care where I slept that night, because I didn’t suppose that I would be sleeping anyway.

Who can sleep in a garlic factory?

But nature has provided us with a way of curing such problems—two ways, actually. The first is called “Death by Poisoning.” The second is called “Reverse Peristroika.” I would have settled for either one, but it happened that peristroika took hold of my entire digestive system and turned it wrongside-out in the space of just a few minutes.

Slim had made a real smart move when he threw me out of the tent. Fellers, if I’d stayed in there for another three minutes, we might have been forced to burn the tent and all our bedding.

Well, nature took its course and I escaped death-by-garlic by the narrowest of margins, and right then and there I placed “camp meat” on the list of Toxic Products Not Even Fit for Hogs. Me and weenies had just declared war on each other, is what had happened.

I had acquired a new and passionate hatred for . . . although I must admit that once I had cleared out the plumbing, so to speak, the thought did occur to me . . .

No. Absolutely no more weenies.

After taking the Anti-Weenie Pledge and conducting a thorough purge of all systems, I turned to the task of putting my life back together. I had lost my right to sleep in the tent, which was okay because your higher breeds of dogs . . .

Coyotes howling?

A restless wind moaning in the trees?

Flashes of lightning that seemed to be coming closer?

I’ve never been the kind of dog who gets spooked by coyotes howling in the distance. The key word there is DISTANCE. We figger that 2–3 miles is a comfortable margin, but the howling I had begun to pick up appeared to be quite a bit closer than that, and coming closer all the time. You ever notice that a dying campfire throws eerie shadows on the side of a tent? Yes sir, and not only are they eerie, but they also MOVE AROUND. I watched those shadows for a while and . . . by George, they began to look a whole lot like cattle rustlers.

Three horrible-looking villains slouched through camp with guns and knives. One of ’em had three eyes. Another had two heads. The third one had the tail of a lizard and I didn’t suppose that Slim would notice if I crept back inside the . . .

“Get out of here, you weenie thief! I don’t need you burping garlic in my face all night. Scram.”

Actually, the garlic had . . . but yes, he seemed pretty emphatic about booting me out of house and home, and let me say right here that I’ve never been the kind of dog who has a pathagorical fear of thunder and lightning.

Some dogs do, you know, and I happen to work with one: Drover.

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