The Case of the Missing Cat. John R. Erickson
The Case of the Missing Cat
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, 1990.
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.
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Copyright © John R. Erickson, 1990
All rights reserved
Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-115-5
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
Dedicated to the memory of my father, Joseph W. Erickson
Contents
Chapter One Pete’s Con Game
Chapter Two Pete Makes a Foolish Wager
Chapter Three The Case of the Lumber-Pile Bunny
Chapter Four The Bunny Cheats and Lies
Chapter Five Humble Pie Stinks
Chapter Six The Case of the Disheartened Chicken
Chapter Seven Bloody Writing on the Wall
Chapter Eight The Healing Waters of Emerald Pond
Chapter Nine Pete’s Mindless Senseless Vandalism of a Sheet
Chapter Ten The Infamous Black Hole of Mustard
Chapter Eleven Total Happiness Without Pete
Chapter Twelve Happy Endings Aren’t as Simple as You Might Think
Chapter One: Pete’s Con Game
It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. Have I ever mentioned that I don’t like cats? I don’t like cats.
And the cat I don’t like the most, the cat I dislike with my whole entire body and soul, is a certain selfish, sneaking, lazy, never-sweat character on my ranch named Pete the Barncat.
You see, it was Pete who lured me into the Case of the Lumber-Pile Bunny. That was the straw that broke the camel’s tooth and set my wicked mind to plotting ways of . . .
Hmmm. How can I say this so that it doesn’t sound crude and tacky? I decided, don’t you see, that our ranch would be a happier and more wholesome place if Pete were suddenly to . . . well, vanish, you might say. Without a trace.
No clues. No suspects. No way that Sally May could connect me with the, uh, tragedy.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Better start at the beginning.
It was mid-morning, fall of the year, as I recall. I was making my way around the yard fence, heading toward the front of the house, when I encountered Pete the Barncat and my assistant, Mister Half-Stepper, Mister Sleep-Till-Noon, Mister Look-at-the-Clouds. Drover.
They were sitting across from one another, looking down at the ground between them. Their behavior struck me as suspicious. I mean, at a distance of ten or twelve feet I could see nothing on the ground between them—nothing but dirt, that is—so why were they looking at dirt?
I put my primary mission on temporary hold, altered course, and went over to check this thing out.
“Number One, what’s going on around here? Number Two, you’re supposed to be resting up for night patrol, Drover. Number Three, mingling with cats is against regulations.”
Drover’s head came up and he gave me his patented silly grin. “Oh, hi Hank, we’re playing checkers.”
“Playing checkers?” I moved closer. “It’s odd that you should say that, Drover, because I don’t see either a checkerboard or checkers.”
“That’s because we’re playing Checkerless Checkers, aren’t we, Pete?”
The cat grinned and nodded. “That’s right, Hankie. We’re playing Checkerless Checkers. Want to play?”
“Negative. Not only do I not want to play Checkerless Checkers, I don’t believe there’s any such game. And if there’s no such game, I refuse to play it, period.”
Pete shrugged and turned his attention to the ground. He moved his paw across the phony so-called “checkerboard,” tapping it in three different places.
“Sorry, Drover, but I just jumped three of your men.”
Drover squinted at the ground. “Oh darn. I guess I shouldn’t have made that move. Did I lose another game?”
Pete nodded and grinned. “Um-hmmm, you did, but you’re getting better all the time. You sure you don’t want to play the winner, Hankie?”
I pushed Drover aside and moved in closer. “Okay, I’ve seen enough to know that there’s something fishy going on here. Drover, where did you learn this so-called game?”
“Well, let’s see. Right here on the ranch.”
“From who or whom did you learn it?”
“Well, let’s see. From Pete.”
“In other words, your only knowledge of the rules of this so-called game came from Pete, is that correct?”
“Well, let’s see.” He squinted one eye and rolled the other one around. “I guess that’s right.”
I began pacing. “Very good. Next question. Are you telling me that you can remember every move in a checker game?”
“Well, I can’t but Pete can.”
“How do you know that?”
“He told me so.”
“I see.” I glanced from one face to the other. The pieces of the puzzle began falling into place. “One more question, Drover, and I’ll have this thing wrapped up. Which of you has won more games?”
Drover looked at the sky. “Let’s see. Pete won the first one. And Pete won the second one. But Pete won the fourth one. And then Pete won the fifth one.”
“Hold it right there. You failed to mention who won the crucial third game.”
“I think Pete won that one.”
“Hm, yes.”
I paced around the two of them. Drover watched me until his head went as far to the south as it could