Lost in the Dark Unchanted Forest by John R. Erickson

Chapter One: Mauled by a Gigantic Sniveling Cat

    I t’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. It was your typical spring day, nothing out of the ordinary: calm, bright, a little on the warmish side, the air full of cotton from the cottonwood trees.
    We were up around the machine shed, as I recall, basking in the sun, whiling away the after­noon, and waiting for darkness to fall, at which time we would begin our night patrol. Since Loper and Sally May had left the ranch the day before on a mysterious trip to a place called “Hospital,” I had made the decision to double up on night patrol.
    Drover was over by the water well, engaged in a meaningless conversation with J. T. Cluck, the head rooster. Suddenly he called.
    â€œHank, come here and look at this thing and tell us what you think it is.”
    I responded to the call and studied the object before him. “That’s a rooster.”
    â€œNo, I mean this down here.” He pointed his nose to the ground.
    â€œOh.” I looked down, sniffed it out, and studied the clues. “That’s dirt, Drover, just common ordinary dirt.”
    â€œYeah, I know, but is that some kind of print or track in the dirt?”
    â€œOh.” I ran a more thorough search this time, and that’s when I found the mysterious track. I raised up my head—slowly, so as not to alarm anyone—and glanced over both shoulders to see if we were being watched. “Where did you find this track?”
    â€œWell, it was right there in the dirt.”
    â€œThat checks out. Who knows about it?”
    â€œJust me and J.T., I guess.”
    â€œQuestion: Has anyone or anything passed by here in the last hour?”
    â€œWell, just me and J.T. and a fly . . . a big, noisy fly.”
    â€œAnd therefore you think the fly left this track, is that what you’re saying? Nice try, Drover. I saw the alleged fly and I know he was big, but not big enough to leave tracks like this. I don’t want to alarm anyone, but I should point out that this is one of the biggest tracks I’ve ever seen.”
    â€œYeah, I know. That’s just what J.T. said when he found it. He thought maybe it was a bobcat track.”
    I gave the runt a withering glare. “Number One, J.T. didn’t find this track. I did.”
    â€œNow just a darn minute!” said J.T.

    I snapped at him, relieved him of a few feathers, and sent him on his way. The last thing I needed was a noisy chicken around to disrupt my investigation—especially one that would try to hog some of the credit for my careful work.
    I turned back to Drover. “Number Two, you should disregard anything J.T. might have said about this track, because chickens don’t know beans about tracks. Number Three, we haven’t seen a bobcat on this ranch in years. Number Four, this track was made by an exceptionally large boar coon.
    â€œNumber Five, I’m betting he’s still hiding on the ranch; and Number Six, our primary mission on tonight’s patrol will be to search him out and throw him off the place before he gets into some serious mischief.”
    â€œYou mean . . .”
    â€œExactly. Prepare for combat, Drover. Catch all the sleep you can between now and dark. I have a feeling we’ll need it.”
    He sniffed at the track. “It sure doesn’t look like a coon track to me.”
    â€œStick with what you do best, son. Sleep. I’ll get you up at 2100 hours.”
    At precisely 2100 hours I awakened Drover and we began what turned out to be one of the most dangerous patrols of my career. It began in a fairly routine manner, with us checking out the saddle shed, the medicine shed, the sick pen, the front lot, and the side lot.
    Nothing. And yet . . . 
    Maybe I have a sick sense, a sixth sense, that is, about these things, a still small voice that warns me when something isn’t right. It was trying to warn me when I headed for the feed