Free The Original Adventures of Hank the Cowdog by John R. Erickson

different. You stink.”
    â€œI’ve joined the coyote tribe.”
    I heard him gasp. “No!”
    â€œThat’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?”
    â€œShe’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.”
    â€œThree 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.”
    â€œThat’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 . . .”
    â€œKnock it off, Drover, I don’t want to hear that stuff.”
    â€œ. . . and dedicated to duty. I knew I could never be as good as you, but I wanted to try. You were my idol, Hank.”
    â€œCut it out, would you?”
    â€œCome back home, Hankie. I need you. The ranch needs you. We all need you.”
    That kind of struck me in the heart, hearing Drover say those things. Then Rip and Snort called for me.
    â€œHunk! Come, sing. We tired wait!”
    â€œWho’s that?” Drover whispered.
    â€œOh, some of my pals. Come on up the hill with me, Drover, and I’ll show you a good time, introduce you to my friends.”
    â€œAre they drunk like you?”
    There was a little edge in his voice. He’d never talked to me like that before. “Well uh, maybe they are and maybe they ain’t. Who cares?”
    â€œI care. I don’t associate with coyote trash.”
    â€œWell, lah-tee-dah! Aren’t we high and mighty tonight.”
    Drover dried his eyes with the back of his paw. “I better get on back to the ranch. I’m on guard tonight.”
    I laughed in his face. “You’re on guard! Son, you’re a sorry excuse for a guard dog, running for the machine shed every time you hear a sound.”
    â€œI’m not going to run anymore, Hank. Some­body’s got to protect the ranch. We can’t depend on you anymore.”
    â€œYou’ll run. You always have, you always will.”
    â€œI ain’t going to run.”
    â€œSure you will, and I can prove it. BOO! ” He didn’t run. “That don’t prove a thing. When the time comes, when the chips are down, you’ll run and hide.”
    He looked me in the eye. “No I won’t. And Hank, if you come with them, I won’t run from you either.” He turned and started walking away.
    â€œYou always were a little chump.”
    He stopped. “I may be a chump, Hank, but I’m not a traitor. Good-bye.”
    â€œGo on, you little dummy, who needs you anyway! Sawed-off, stub-tailed, self-righteous little pipsqueak!”
    Drover went his way and I went mine. On my way up the hill, I could hear the boys singing “Me just a Worthless Coyote” again. I took my place between Rip and Snort and started belting out the high tenor. We went on like that all night long, singing and laughing and chasing mice.
    But it wasn’t quite as much fun this time.

Chapter Ten: Aged Mutton

    M ust have been a couple of days later that I was sitting on the edge of the caprock, sunning myself and looking off in the distance. I’d been there most of the day, thinking about things and enjoying the quiet.
    The coyote village was awful noisy. Seemed that somebody was always in the midst of a squabble. When a husband and wife had a difference of opinion, they just by George had a knock-down drag-out fight, right