The Case of the Kidnapped Collie 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: 2015-05-06T22:06:57+00:00

“Beulah, I hate to be the messenger of bad news, but I’ve been through that creek bottom dozens of times, hundreds of times, and know every grain of sand and every sprig of grass, and I’ve never seen a quail down there. I’m sorry. I know he’s a friend of yours, but . . .”

WHIRRRRRR!

Birds? Twenty or thirty quail?

She turned to me with a smile. “See? I knew he’d find birds.” She scooted east.

I found myself coughing. “Yes, I also thought he might stumble across that one covey . . . we’ve been watching it for, uh, weeks now and . . .”

Down below, I heard the men shouting, “Good dog, Plato! Nice work, boy.”

Okay, so maybe he’d lucked into finding the only covey of quail along that section of the creek. Any mutt could find one covey. The real test would come in finding another—and I knew for a fact that there wasn’t one.

And just to prove it, I scooted a bit closer to . . . my goodness, she had lovely brown eyes!

“Beulah, I’m a dog of few words, so let’s go straight to the bottom line. I think the time has come for you to . . .”

“He’s picked up another scent. See how he’s slowed down?”

“It’s a rabbit, Beulah. Don’t get your hopes up. But as I was saying, I’m a dog of few words.”

“Good.”

“So we agree on that. The problem with dogs these days is that they talk too much.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And what I have to say won’t take long. You see, I think our relationship has reached a turning point, and the time has come, my buttercup, for you to . . .”

“Hank, I keep hearing your voice.”

“That’s wonderful news, my cactus flower, be­cause I often hear yours—in my dreams.”

“Yes, but this is no dream.”

“Oh, it could be, my little bluebonnet. Our fondest dreams are within our grasp. All we have to do is . . .”

“Shhh. Look, he’s on point again.”

“Who? Oh, him.” Sure enough, What’s-His-Name had turned to stone once again. “You know, he’s going to get in trouble for pointing those rabbits. But as I was saying . . .”

WHIRRRR!

By George, the weeds just came alive with whirring wings and flying birds. Beulah turned to me and smiled.

“As you were saying?”

“Beulah, I don’t think those were actually quail. They looked more like, uh, blackbirds or starlings. Really.”

“They were quail.”

“Okay, maybe they were quail, but they were stupid quail. A smart quail would be up in the sand draws, where it belongs.”

“A quail is a quail.”

“I never denied that.”

“And Plato found them. It won’t hurt you to admit that he’s good at his work.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll admit that he’s one lucky bird dog.”

“Hank.”

“And he’s pretty good at his line of work, although . . .”

“Hank, shh. Let’s watch.”

We turned our respective eyes to the south and watched The Hero at work. He was running again, sniffing out every bush and clump of grass.

Hadn’t we seen all this before?

I was getting restless. My time with Beulah was slipping away.

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