The Original Adventures of Hank the Cowdog (7 page)

Chapter Nine: Me Just a Worthless Coyote

T
hat business about the secret was the perfect stroke, and it probably saved my life. In desperation, I had lucked into it. Turns out that coyotes are superstitious animals, even though they're known to be cunning and vijalent vijalunt vijallunt vijjullunt . . . 

I don't know how to spell that word. Spelling is a pain in the neck. I do my best with it, but I figger if a guy has tremendous gifts as a writer, his audience will forgive a few slip-ups in the spelling department.

I mean, it doesn't take any brains to open a dickshunary and look up a word. Anybody can do that. The real test of a writer comes in the creative process. I try to attend to the big picture, don't you see, and let the spelling take care of itself.

Vidgalent. Vidgallunt. Still doesn't look right.

Anyway, coyotes are superstitious brutes, and that deal about the secret caught them just right and saved my hide. Actually, it did better than that. It made me a kind of celebrity in the tribe, and I was treated like a visiting dignutarry digneterry dignitary, who cares?

By everyone but Scraunch, that is, and he continued to give me hateful glances and mutter under his breath every time our paths crossed. I couldn't blame him for being sore. I had won and he had lost, and you can't expect everyone to be a good loser. As we say in the security business, show me a good loser and I'll show you a loser.

Scraunch had lost a big one, and I was confident that he would hate my guts forevermore, even though there was a good chance that I would eventually become his brother-in-law.

You know, when Missy had first mentioned that possibility, it hadn't struck me as a real good idea. I suppose at that time I was still thinking of going back home, back to Drover and Pete, the chickens, the sewer, the cowboys, my old job. But a couple of days in the coyote village pretty muchly convinced me that I had found my true place in the world as a savage.

The life of a savage ain't too bad. I admit that I was raised with a natural prejjudise predguduss
bias
against coyotes. Ma always told us that they were lazy, sneaky, undisciplined, and didn't have any ambition. But what chapped her most about coyotes was that they ate rotten meat and it made them smell bad.

True, every word of it. But what she
didn't
tell us was that laziness and riotous living can be a lot of fun. I don't blame her for not telling us that. I mean, she was trying to raise a litter of registered, papered, blue-ribbon, top-of-the-line cowdogs, and there's no better way to mess up a good cowdog than to let him discover that goofing off beats the heck out of hard work.

I discovered it by accident, and once I had a taste of indolence, I loved it. I mean, all at once I had no responsibilities, no cares, no worries. When I woke up in the morning, I didn't have to wonder if my ranch had made it through another night, or if I would get yelled at again for something I hadn't done.

About a week after I joined the tribe, I made friends with two brothers named Rip and Snort. They were what you'd call typical good-old-boy coyotes: filthy, smelled awful, not real smart, loved to fight and have a good time, and had no more ambition than a couple of fence posts.

If Rip and Snort took a shine to you, you had two of the best friends in the world. If they didn't happen to like your looks or your attitude, you were in a world of trouble. I got along with them.

One evening along toward sunset, they came around and asked if I wanted to go carousing. I was feeling refreshed, since I'd slept a good part of the day—got up around noon and ate a piece of a rabbit that Missy had caught, then went back to bed. I was all rested up and said, “Sure I'd love to go carousing.”

So off we went, me and Rip and Snort, on a big adventure. We went down the canyon, crossed that big sandy draw that cuts through there, then on across some rolling country until we came to an old silage pit. I'd been by it many times, but I'd never taken the time to go into the pit and check things out. By the time I took over the ranch, the cowboys had quit feeding silage, so I didn't know much about it.

One of the things I didn't know about silage was that it's fermented, which means that it's got some alkyhall in it, which means that if a guy eats enough of it, his attitude about the world will begin to change.

All those years I'd spent on the ranch, and I never knew any of that. But Rip and Snort knew all about silage, yes they did, and they had made a well-packed trail into and out of the silage pit.

So we started eating silage. Struck me as kind of bitter at first, but the more I ate the less I noticed the bitterness. By George, after about an hour of that, I thought it was as sweet as honey.

Well, we ate and we laughed and we laughed and we ate, and when it came time to leave, Rip and Snort had to drag me out of there, fellers, 'cause I just couldn't get enough of that fine stuff.

A big moon was out and we went single file down a cow path, Snort in the lead, me in the middle, and Rip on the caboose. Funny thing, that cow path kept wiggling around and I had a devil of a time trying to stay on it. I asked Rip about it and he said he was having the same trouble, derned path kept jumping from side to side. (I suspect the silage had something to do with it, is what I suspect.)

Well, next thing I knew, Snort topped a rise and came to a sudden halt, which caused a little pile-up, with me running into Snort and Rip running into me because couldn't any of us see real well at that point.

“Stop here,” said Snort, “sing many song. Sing pretty, sing loud, teach Hunk coyote song.”

So we all sat down on our haunches, throwed back our heads, and started singing. Let's see if I can remember how that song went.

“Me just a worthless coyote, me howling at the moon.

Me like to sing and holler, me crazy as a loon.

Me not want job or duties, no church or Sunday school.

Me just a worthless coyote . . .” and I don't remember the last part, only it rhymed with “school.” Pool or drool, something like that.

It was a crackerjack of a song. We ripped through it a couple of times, until I had her down. Then we divided up. Snort took the bass, Rip carried the melody, and I got up on the high tenor.

Don't know as I ever heard better singing. It was one of them priceless moments in life when three very gifted guys come together and blend their talents and sort of raise the cultural standards of the whole danged world. I mean, it was that good.

We sang it four or five times, then all at once Snort's ears perked up and he lifted his paw. We stopped and listened. Off in the distance, we heard yapping. There was something familiar about that yap, but for a minute I couldn't place it. Then it occurred to me that we were sitting on a spot just a quarter mile north of ranch headquarters.

That yapping was coming from Drover.

I think Rip and Snort had took a notion to amble on down there and see if they could get into a fight. I had to explain that they couldn't run fast enough to get Drover into a fight, that it would be a waste of their time.

“Let me go down and talk to him,” I said. “He's an old buddy of mine. We used to work together. Maybe he'll come back and sing with us. We could use another guy on baritone.”

They shrugged. Snort sat down and started scratching his ear. “More fun fight, but singing okay too. We wait.”

So I trotted down to the ranch, weaving a little bit from side to side and humming “Me just a Worthless Coyote.” Say, that was a good song!

When I was, oh, twenty, twenty-five yards away, I slowed to a walk. I could see Drover up ahead of me. He was peering off in the distance. The little dope hadn't even seen me. I decided to stop and watch him for a minute.

He was all bunched up and tense. Off in the distance he could hear Rip and Snort laughing and belching and having a good time. He'd cock his head and listen for a minute, then he'd give out a yip-yip-yip. On every yip, all four feet went off the ground. Then he'd stop and listen again.

He never saw me, never had the slightest notion that I was sitting ten yards away from him, watching the whole show. This was my replacement, understand, the guy who had taken over my job as Head of Ranch Security. I didn't need anyone to tell me that the ranch had gone completely and absolutely to pot.

I cleared my throat. Drover froze. “What was that? Who's there?”

“What's going on, son?”

He gave out his usual squeak and in a flash he was high-balling it for the machine shed, squalling like a turpentined cat. He'd gone maybe ten, twelve yards when he slowed to a walk, then stopped.

“Hank, is that you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It is?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How can I be sure? I thought you'd left the country.”

“Well, why don't you just trot your little self over here and see.”

He came real slow, a few steps at a time. “It . . . it sure sounds like you.”

“Son of a gun.”

“You're not fooling me, are you, Hank?”

“Get over here and quit messing around.”

“Okay, okay, I just . . . I want to be sure, that's all.” He came creeping up to me. “Hank?”

“Boo.”

He screamed and jumped straight up into the air. “Hank, stop that, don't do that to me! My nerves . . .”

“Drover, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. What a pitiful excuse you are for a night watchman. I could have carried off half the chickenhouse and you never would have gotten the news.”

He hung his head. “I know it. I'm a failure. Every morning I wake up and say, ‘Here's another day for you to mess up, Drover.' And I do, every one of them. It hasn't been the same since you left, Hank.”

“I knew it wouldn't. I tried to tell 'em but they wouldn't listen. I mean, you can't treat a good dog like a dog and expect to keep him.”

“Gosh, I wish you'd come back.”

I laughed. “You can forget that, son, cause it'll never happen. I've found a better life.”

He looked me over real careful. “What's come over you, Hank? You look different. You smell different. You stink.”

“I've joined the coyote tribe.”

I heard him gasp. “No!”

“That's right, and if you had a brain in your head, you'd come along and join up with 'em too. It ain't a bad life, let me tell you.”

He took a couple of steps back. “I can't believe it. What would your mother say?”

“She'd say I was a turncoat and a traitor. So what? I tried the straight life, I did my job, and what did I get? Abuse. Ingratitude. No thanks, life's too short for that. I'll cast my lot with the outlaws of the world.”

“Three weeks ago,” he said in a quavery voice, “you were on the side of law and order, trying to catch the murderers. Now you're one of them.”

“That's right.”

He started crying. “Oh Hank, I can't take this! I used to admire you so much. You were my hero, I thought you were the greatest dog in the world. Since I was a pup, I just wanted to be like you, brave and strong and fearless . . .”