The Case of the Hooking Bull by John R. Erickson

Chapter One: Watering the Shrubbery

    I t’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. It started out to be a normal summertime day. Drover and I were asleep on our gunnysack beds under the gas tanks, although I wasn’t entirely asleep.
    Very seldom do I indulge myself in 100 percent sleep because . . . well, just think about it. There’s no telling who or what might come onto the ranch and do who-knows-what.
    Let us say that I was in a light doze, listening to Drover grunt, wheeze, and snore in his sleep. Perhaps I had a few matters of business on my mind, but not many, and for sure I wasn’t thinking about the Huge Horrible Hooking Bull in the north pasture.
    Maybe I should have been, because before the day was over, that monster of a bull would . . . better not reveal any more of the story. I’d hate to scare the kids too badly too soon.
    This bull belonged to the neighbors, see, and he’d been tearing down gates and fences and causing a lot of trouble. Slim and Loper had run him out of the pasture three or four times, but he kept coming back and destroying fences.
    You probably know how much your average cowboy enjoys repairing fence in the heat of summer.
    Not much. By the second or third time, he starts thinking of naughty things to do to the party who is destroying the fence.
    But doing naughty things to such a big, mean, huge horned creature isn’t as easy as you might think. The problem comes from the fact that bulls are pretty good hands at fighting back.
    Oops, I wasn’t going to reveal any more.
    Yes, this is going to be a pretty scary story, so use your own judgment. If you have a weak nervous system, you might ought to find something else to do and leave this story alone.
    Where was I? Oh yes, under the gas tanks. I leaped to my feet and took a deep, luxurious stretch. I was about to kick Drover awake and outline the day’s work when I heard the screen door slam up at the house.

    Drover heard it too. His ears jumped, his eyes popped open, and he yelled, “Scraps!” And in a flash he was gone.
    â€œDrover, wait! Come back here.”
    He came padding back. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong is that you cheated. Do you think it’s fair for you to leave while I’m in the middle of a stretch?”
    â€œWell . . .”
    â€œOf course it’s not. That’s the kind of shabby trick I would expect from Pete, but I’m shocked that you’d try such a thing.”
    â€œWell . . .”
    â€œIf we can’t play fair, Drover, we shouldn’t play at all.”
    â€œI guess not, but I was hungry.”
    â€œEveryone’s hungry, Drover, but the kind of hunger we need in this world is a hunger for fair play and manners.”
    â€œI guess so.”
    â€œAre you ashamed of yourself?”
    â€œWell . . . I guess so. I’ve always wanted to be a good dog.”
    â€œI know you have, son, and I know you will be.” I gave him a pat on the shoulder to make him feel better. “Now, we’ll start this thing all over again and do it right this time. On the count of four, you may race up to the yard gate.”
    â€œFour?”
    â€œThat’s correct.”
    â€œI thought everybody started on the count of three.”
    â€œI will leave on three. You will leave on four. That way you won’t be tempted to cheat again.”
    â€œOh good. Thanks, Hank.”
    â€œAny time, Drover, any time.”
    I was the first to reach the yard gate, heh-heh.
    There I found . . . hmm . . . no scraps, but the gate was open. Leaving the yard gate open was a transgression of Sally May’s Law, and I could think of only one party on the ranch who might do such a thing.
    Hint: He was five years old, walked on two legs, made lots of noise, and often had mischief on his mind. If you guessed Junior the Buzzard or Slim Chance, the cowboy, you’re wrong. The correct answer is Little Alfred.
    Yes, Little Alfred was bad about