LITMIR.BIZ

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. The Case of the Shipwrecked Tree began in the spring of the year, as I recall. Yes, of course it did. Drover and I never would have joined up with a pirate captain in the wintertime, because, well, who wants to make an ocean voyage when it’s cold? Not me.

      But that came after we got the news about the Turkey Rebellion. Have we discussed that? Maybe not. It was a pretty scary deal . . . but maybe we’d better slow down and take things one at a time.

      Okay, it was spring. Warm days, chilly nights, spring foliage on all the trees. The buzzards, kites, sparrows, and cardinals had returned to the ranch after spending the winter . . . somewhere. Down south, I suppose.

      Why do they leave every fall? I have no idea. Ask a bird. I consider it a huge waste of time and effort. Come spring, they just turn around and fly right back. Dumb birds.

      What’s the point? If they don’t like it around here, why do they keep coming back, and if they do like it here, why do they always leave? It makes no sense to me, but let me hasten to point out that I’m not a bird. Maybe you had already noticed that.

      Where were we? Oh yes. Birds. Every year in the fall, our summer birds leave and fly south. We don’t know why and we don’t care, but some birds stay here over the winter. One type of bird that stays on the ranch year-round is the wild turkey.

      Most of the time, your wild turkeys are okay birds. They don’t bother me and I don’t bother them. They run in flocks, roost in cottonwood trees, and steal grain from the horses, which is fine with me because I’m not fond of horses. However—

      There’s always a “however,” isn’t there? I had never supposed that our local turkey population might be involved in a sophisticated spying operation until . . .

      It all began in the early morning hours, as I recall. I was sitting at my desk in the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex beneath the gas tanks, going over some files and reports. I had hardly slept in days, I mean, the routine of running the ranch had kept me up day and night for so long, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d grabbed a nap.

      You might say I was “off duty,” but that doesn’t mean much. In this line of work, there is no “off duty.” If we’re not working traffic on the county road or guarding the chicken house or checking out enemy spies, we’re back at the office, reading reports.

      That’s what I was doing—slumped over my desk and reading a Monster Report, #MR-1055327—when all at once, Drover came bursting in.

      “Hank, come quick! The wild turkeys are coming right up to the gas tanks! I tried to bark ’em away, but one of ’em pecked me on the nose.”

      “Hose nose snorking mork beetlebomb.”

      “I thought you’d want to know, and maybe you’d better wake up.”

      “I can’t wake up, Drivel, because I’m not asniggle.”

      “Yeah, you are asleep. I can tell, ’cause you’re stretched out on your gunnysack and your eyes are closed. You can’t fool me.”

      I turned toward the sound of his voice and tried to beam him a gaze of purest steel, but the office was totally dark and I couldn’t see him. “Churn on the lice, Droving, I’m having trouble bubble guttersniping the hogwash.”

      “I’m right here, if you’ll just open your eyes.”

      Suddenly, I realized that something was wrong, badly wrong. I leaped to my feet, staggered three steps to the north, and collapsed again. “Holy strokes, Dobber, I’ve been blinded! I fought them off as long as I could, but the turkeys kept coming for our pork chops!”

      “My name’s Drover.”

      Suddenly my eyes . . . hmmm, my eyes popped open, almost as though they’d been closed, and all at once I saw light and objects and . . . hmmm, a smallish white dog with a stub tail. “Who are you and why are you honking the catfish bait?”

      “Well . . . I’m not sure about that, but I’m Drover. Remember me? I’m your best friend.”

      I blinked my eyes and struggled to my feet. “Yes, of course. How badly am I hurt?”

      He gave me a foolish grin. “Well . . . I don’t think you’re hurt at all. I think maybe you were asleep and you’re not awake yet.”

      I staggered two steps to the west. The bleeding had stopped and my legs seemed to be working. “For your information, I was not asleep. I was reading a monster report and . . .” I shot a glance over my shoulder. “Wait a second. You’re Drover, aren’t you? Welcome back, son. How was Cowabonga? You went on a trip, right?”

      “Not me. I’ve been here forever.”

      “Just as I thought.” I blinked my eyes and shook the vapors out of my head. My mind began to climb back into the driver’s seat of my . . . something. “Okay, Drover, I’m beginning to see a pattern here. I was reading files and reports,

Скачать книгу