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

      It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. As I recall, it was the 14th of May when the silver monster bird swooped down on the ranch and threatened us with death and destruction.

      Or was it May 15th? Could have been the 16th. Anyway . . .

      Silver monster birds are huge creatures with a body that’s long and skinny, resembles the body of a snake, which makes me think they might be a cross-breed between a bird and a reptile. The head sort of confirms that, because it has a sharp nose and two wicked eyes.

      In other words, it ain’t your usual bird head. Oh yes, did I mention that they don’t have a beak? No beak whatsoever. That’s a pretty important clue right there. It ain’t natural. Show me a bird without a beak and I’ve got some questions to ask him.

      Another thing about the silver monster birds is that they have shiny feathers—not your usual dull brown or glossy black, but bright, shiny silver feathers. And a lot of the monster birds will have a white marking on the side which resembles a star.

      They have big drooping wings with several things growing out of the underside. I call them “things” because I don’t have a technical term for them yet. Whatever they are, starlings and blackbirds and sparrows don’t have them. They may be poison stingers, I don’t know.

      These silver monster birds don’t flap their wings. They glide like a buzzard or a hawk. And did I mention that they roar? Yes sir, they roar, and I mean LOUD. Your ordinary bird doesn’t do that. He might cheep or squawk or sing a little tune, but you very rarely find one that roars.

      It’s the roar that makes the silver monster birds a little scary. It takes a special kind of dog to stand up to that roar, hold his ground, and keep on barking. I suspect that even some cowdogs would run from that terrible sound, but on this ranch we don’t run from danger. We run to it.

      Anyway, one day last week I caught a silver monster bird trying to slip onto the ranch. He should have known he couldn’t get away with it. I mean, that roar is a dead give-away. My ears are very sensitive to certain sounds and there aren’t too many roars that get past me.

      Drover and I had put in a long night patrolling headquarters, fairly routine, as I recall. About the only excitement came a little after midnight when Drover got into a scuffle with a cricket. I told him to save his energy for bigger stuff. I mean, crickets cause a certain amount of damage around the place, but they ain’t what you’d call a major threat.

      I figger Pete can handle the cricket department and we’ll take care of the more dangerous assignments. ’Course the problem with that is that Pete won’t do it. Too lazy. He’s a typical cat, but I don’t want to get started on cats.

      Anyway, Drover and I came in from night patrol and bedded down under the gas tanks. I scratched around on my gunnysack and got it fluffed up just right and had curled up for a long nap, when all at once I heard it.

      My right ear went up. My ears are highly trained, don’t you see, and they sort of have a mind of their own. I can be dead asleep and lost in beautiful dreams, but those ears never sleep. They never go off duty. (This is fairly typical of your blue-ribbon, top-of-the-line cowdogs.)

      I suppose I was dreaming about Beulah again. Derned woman is hard to get off my mind. I don’t let women distract me during working hours, but sometimes I lose control when I’m asleep. I mean, a guy can keep an iron grip on himself only so long. Every once in a while he kind of goes to seed.

      Well, I heard the roar. My right ear went up. My left ear went up. I glanced around. “Beulah?”

      My sawed-off, short-haired, stub-tailed assistant lifted his head and stared at me. “I’m not Beulah. I’m Drover.”

      I studied the runt for a second, and my head began to clear. “I know who you are.”

      “How come you called me Beulah?”

      “I didn’t.”

      “I’m almost sure you did.”

      “Drover,