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The Case of the Swirling Killer Tornado. John R. Erickson
Читать онлайн.Название The Case of the Swirling Killer Tornado
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781591887256
Автор произведения John R. Erickson
Жанр Учебная литература
Серия Hank the Cowdog
Издательство Ingram
The Case of the Swirling Killer Tornado
John R. Erickson
Illustrations by Gerald L. Holmes
Maverick Books, Inc.
Publication Information
MAVERICK BOOKS
Published by Maverick Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 549, Perryton, TX 79070
Phone: 806.435.7611
www.hankthecowdog.com
First published in the United States of America by Gulf Publishing Company, 1995.
Subsequently published simultaneously by Viking Children’s Books and Puffin Books, members of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 1999.
Currently published by Maverick Books, Inc., 2013.
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © John R. Erickson, 1995
All rights reserved
Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-125-4
Hank the Cowdog® is a registered trademark of John R. Erickson.
Printed in the United States of America
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Dedication
For Trev Tevis, whose heroic struggle against pain has not diminished the beauty of his music.
Contents
Chapter One A Tempest in a Teabag
Chapter Two The Scrambled Egg Mystery
Chapter Three Headquarters Is Attacked by Charlie Monsters
Chapter Four The Polka-dot Midget
Chapter Five The Bacon Temptation
Chapter Six Three Pounding Hearts in the Kitchen
Chapter Seven Inside the Coverous Cavern
Chapter Eight A Mysterious Phone Call
Chapter Nine We Hear the Roar of the Hurricane
Chapter Ten Okay, Maybe It Was a Tornado
Chapter Eleven Strange Creatures in the Tornado
Chapter Twelve Wow, What a Great Ending!
Chapter One: A Tempest in a Teabag
It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. It was June, as I recall, the middle of June. I was under the gas tanks, sleeping on my gunnysack bed.
Or resting my eyes, would be closer to the truth. See, it was almost midnight and I am never asleep at that hour. Never. The Head of Ranch Security is always wide awake, alert, and on night patrol during the deep, dark hours of the night.
I was resting mine eyes. Drover, on the other hand, was totally knocked out: snoring, grunting, wheezing, jerking, twitching, fluttering his eyelids, squeaking, and doing all the other things he does in his sleep.
He was starting to get on my nerves. I cracked one eyelid and addressed him in a firm term of voice: “Droving, must you snork all that gutter-snipe? Plumber’s friend porkchop and horrifying bananas.”
“Snork murk rumple wrinkle skittle rickie tattoo.”
I couldn’t help chuckling at that. I mean, to who or whom did he think he was speaking? “Whittle wheelbarrowing fodder-fiddle’s whicker-bill.”
“Mugg wump tree trunk. Norking smurk whiffle feathers on Tuesday.”
“I donkey that. Horse hoof jellybean bonk woofer clock spring.”
“Rubbard pillowfight?”
“Omelet.”
“Yeah, but cornbread highway.”
“Tell your spaghetti leaves to double-clutch the peanut butter.”
“Beanstalk bird nest horizontal chicken pox.”
All at once it occurred to me that this conversation was going nowhere. Drover was making very little sense and I was a busy dog. I didn’t have time to listen to his foolishness.
I cracked my other eyelid and beamed him a look of purest steel. “Drover, if you’re going to talk to me, the least you can do is snork mirk the posthole diggers.”
His head came up. His eyes drifted open and moved around in, little circles. “Who ate the trees?”
“I can’t answer that. The point is . . .” I blinked my eyes several times and slowly Drover’s face came into focus. Perhaps I had been asleeper than I thought. “The point is that I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh. Then what about the spare tire?”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He gave his head a shake, stood up, and walked around in a circle. “Gosh, I don’t know what I’ve been talking about either.”
“There, you see? Exactly my point. You’ve been talking nonsense, which makes me think, Drover, that you’ve been asleep. Is it possible that you’re still asleep, even though we’re in the most dangerous part of the night?”
“Well, I . . . I’m not sure. What is today?”
“Today is today, Drover, the very day in which we are living and breathing.
“Oh. Well, if it’s already today, there’s no need for us to wait around for it. We might as well take a little nap.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Good point. A little nap sometimes does wonders.”
“Yeah, and it’ll help us wake up later on.”
“Exactly. Studies show that dogs who take naps are more likely to snork and murgle than scrambled tumbleweeds.”
My eyes drifted shut. My breathing fell into a deep and regular pattern. It was very quiet and peaceful. Then . . .
“Hank, are you sleepy?”
“Huh?”
“I said, are you sleepy?”
“No thanks, I couldn’t hold another bite.”
“’Cause I’m not. All at once I’m wide awake. Did you hear that sound?”
“Chinese tunafish.”
“I heard it. I heard it with my own ears. Hank, are you asleep?”
“Saddle blanket salad poofly murgle porkchop.”
“Hank, you’d better wake up. I just heard a sound and I’m getting scared and my leg hurts.”
I opened my head and lifted my eyes . . . lifted my head and opened my eyes, I should say, and tried to bring Drover’s folks into the fracas . . . Drover’s face into focus, actually.
Perhaps I had dozed, but not deeply and not for long. I tried to bring Drover’s face into focus. “Did you just say that your leg heard a