The Original Adventures of Hank the Cowdog. John R. Erickson

Чтение книги онлайн.

      It was kind of a short fight. Coming down, I seen them quills aimed up at me and tried to change course. Too late. I don’t move so good in midair.

      I lit right in the middle of him and bam, he slapped me across the nose with his tail, sure did hurt too, brought tears to my eyes. I hollered for Drover to launch the second wave but he had disappeared.

      Porcupine took another shot at me but I dodged, tore up half an acre of brush, and got the heck out of there. As I limped back up to the house on pin-cushion feet, my thoughts went back to the murder scene and the evidence I had committed to memory.

      It was clear now. The porcupine had had nothing at all to do with the murder because porcupines don’t eat anything but trees.

      Drover had found the first set of tracks he had come to and had started hollering about coyotes. I had been duped into believing the runt.

      Yes, it was all clear. I had no leads, no clues, no idea who had killed the hen. What I did have was a face-full of porcupine quills, as well as several in my paws.

      I limped up to the yard gate. As you might expect, Drover was nowhere to be seen. I sat down beside the gate and waited for Loper to come out and remove the quills.

      A lot of dogs would have set up a howl and a moan. Not me. I figgered that when a dog got to be Head of Ranch Security, he ought to be able to stand some pain. It just went with the territory.

      So I waited and waited and Loper didn’t come out. Them quills was beginning to hurt.

      The end of my nose throbbed, felt like a balloon. Made me awful restless, but I didn’t whine or howl.

      Pete the Barncat came along just then, had his tail stuck straight up in the air and was rubbing along the fence, coming my way. He had his usual dumb-cat expression and I could hear him purring.

      He came closer. I glared at him. “Scram, cat.”

      He stopped, arched his back, and rubbed up against the fence. “What’s that on your face?”

      “Nothing you need to know about.”

      He rubbed and purred, then reached up and sharpened his claws on a post. “You sure look funny with all those things sticking out of your nose.”

      “You’re gonna look funny if you don’t run along and mind your own business. I’m not in the mood to take any of your trash right now.”

      He grinned and kept coming, started rubbing up against my leg. I decided to ignore him, look the other way and pretend he wasn’t there. Sometimes that’s the best way to handle a cat, let him know that you won’t allow him to get you stirred up. You have to be firm with cats. Give ’em the slightest encouragement and he’ll try to move in and take over.

      Pete rubbed and purred. I ignored him, told myself he wasn’t there. Then he brought that tail up and flicked it across the end of my nose. I curled my lip and growled. He looked up at me and did it again.

      It tickled my nose, made my eyes water. I had to sneeze. I tried to fight it back but couldn’t hold it. I gave a big sneeze and them quills sent fire shooting through my nose, kind of inflamed me, don’t you see, and all at once I lost my temper.

      I made a snap at him but he was gone, over the fence and into Sally May’s yard, which is sort of off limits to us dogs even though Pete can come and go as he pleases, which ain’t fair.

      With the fence between us, Pete knew he was safe. He throwed a hump into his back and hissed, and what was I supposed to do then? Sing him a lullaby? Talk about the weather? No sir, I barked. I barked hard and loud, just to let that cat know that he couldn’t get me stirred up.

      The door opened and Loper stepped out on the porch. He was wearing jeans and an undershirt, no hat and no boots, and he had a cup of coffee in his hand.

      “Hank! Leave the cat alone!”

      I stopped and stared at him. Leave the cat alone! Pete grinned and walked off, purring and switching the tip of his tail back and forth.

      I could have killed him.

      I whined and wagged my tail and went over to the gate where Loper could see my nose. He looked up at the sky, took a drink of coffee, swatted a mosquito on his arm, looked up at the clouds again. I whined louder and jumped on the gate so that he couldn’t miss seeing that old Hank, his loyal friend and protector of the ranch, had been wounded in the line of duty.

      “Don’t jump on the gate.” He yawned and went back into the house.

      Twenty minutes later he came out again, dressed for the day’s work. I had waited pa­tiently. My nose was really pounding by this time, but I didn’t complain. When he came out the gate, I jumped up to greet him.

      Know what he said? “Hank, you stink! Have you been in the sewer again?” And he walked on down to the corral, didn’t see the quills in my nose.

      At last he saw them. We were down at the corral. He shook his head and muttered, “Hank, when are you going to learn about porcupines? How many times do we have to go through this? Drover never gets quills in his nose.”

      Well, Drover was a little chicken and Loper just didn’t understand. Nobody understood.

      He got a pair of fencing pliers out of the saddle shed, threw a leg lock on me, and started pulling. It hurt. Oh it hurt! Felt like he was pulling off my whole nose. But I took it without a whimper—well, maybe I whimpered a little bit—and we got ’er done.

      Loper rubbed me behind the ears. “There, now try to stay away from porcupines.” He stood up and started to dust off his jeans when he noticed the wet spot.

      His eyes came up and they looked kind of wrathful. “Did you do that?”

      I was well on my way to tall timber when he threw the pliers at me.

      I couldn’t help it. I didn’t do it on purpose. The quills just got to hurting so bad that I had to let something go. Was it my fault that he had me in a leg lock and got in the way?

      Make one little mistake around this ranch and they nail you to the wall.

      I laid low for a while, hid in the post pile and nursed my nose. It was about ten o’clock when Sally May discovered the murdered hen.

      Chapter Three: An Enormous Monster

      I debated for a long time about what to do next.

      Should I hide out and play it safe, or go on down to the chickenhouse and get blamed for something that wasn’t my fault?

      Curiosity СКАЧАТЬ