Murder in the Middle Pasture 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: 2015-05-12T22:24:23+00:00

I mean, I’ve worked around cowboys enough to know that where pistols are concerned, what they hit ain’t necessarily what they aim at. If Slim wanted to empty his gun at those coyotes, that was okay with me. I’d watch from the rear.

Well, he emptied his gun and the coyotes gave him the slip and I watched from the rear. He came back with a tired horse and a face that was red from the cold.

“Well, they got away, Hank, and I don’t think I did any more than scare ’em a little bit.”

I could have told him.

He rode over to where the heifer was standing over the dead calf, what the coyotes had left of it, and shook his head. “I guess we’d better drive these heifers down into the home pasture where we can watch ’em a little closer. We can’t have any more of this.”

I walked over toward Slim. When the heifer saw me, she started shaking her horns and came after me again, chased me around Slim’s horse until she finally got tired and gave up.

“Boy, she’s in a hostile mood,” said Slim. “Better stay away from her. She sure thinks you’re a coyote.”

We left her there, loped out to the back side of the pasture, and started looking for cattle. Lucky for us, we found them all in two bunches near the windmill. We got behind them and drove them south and put them through the gate into the home pasture. Then we headed back to headquarters.

We got there around noon. Slim went on down to the corral and put up his horse, and I went looking for Drover. Naturally I went straight to the machine shed, expecting to find him sound asleep on Slim’s overalls.

I peeked in the door, looked around. It was awful dark and gloomy in there. “Drover?” I heard him whimper and I stepped inside and went toward the sound. Had to go all the way back to the north end and found him amongst the windmill parts and the electric fence chargers. “What are you doing back here?”

“Oh Hank, they came back! I tried to run ’em off but they beat me up.”

“Wait a minute. Who came back and beat you up? Coyotes?”

“No, those stray dogs, Buster and Muggs and the others. I went up to bark at the mailman, like you told me, and they jumped me on my way back. I never had a chance.”

“I can believe that.” By this time my eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I could see that his hair was mussed in several places and one ear had been chewed on. “How bad you hurt?”

“Terrible! I’m wounded, Hank, I may not make it.”

“Can you walk?”

“Well . . . I guess so.”

“And you can talk. So if you can walk and talk, what else is wrong?”

“Well . . . Hank, I don’t like getting whipped!”

“Nobody does, son, but in this business that’s just part of a day’s work. Even yours truly has been whipped on a few rare occasions, and if it’s good enough for me, it’s good enough for you.

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