Free The Case of the Missing Cat by John R. Erickson

delicious-smelling pile of roast beef scraps on the ground in front of us.
    â€œI guess you dogs get it all tonight,” she said, then turned and went back into the house. Little Alfred followed her, with his chin down on his chest.
    I turned to Drover. “Well, this is True Happi­ness, son. At last we have all the scraps to ourselves. Now, before you get any big ideas, let me point out that I get the larger portion.”
    He sniffed the fragrant vapors that were rising from the scraps and . . . hmm, very strange . . . he shook his head. “You can have ’em all, Hank. I’m not very hungry.”
    â€œHow could you not be very hungry?”
    â€œI don’t know. Somehow food doesn’t seem as interesting when we can’t fight over it . . . with Pete.”
    â€œWell, you just sit there and watch, and I’ll . . .”
    Funny, I’d kind of lost my appetite too. I stood over the scraps, sniffed ’em, licked ’em, took a bite and rolled it around in my mouth. The exciting taste I’d expected to find just wasn’t there.
    â€œIt’s not the same, is it, Hank?”
    â€œWhat?” He’d been watching me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    A tear rolled down his cheek and dripped off the end of his nose. “I wish old Pete would come back and fight with us. Gosh, we might starve to death without him.”
    I heaved a sigh and pushed myself up to my feet. “All right, Drover, let’s go see if we can find the stupid cat.”
    All at once he was jumping up and down. “Really, Hank, honest? You mean that?”
    â€œI’m doing it as a special favor for you, I want that understood right now. Let’s move out. I figger we’ve got one hour of daylight left.”
    And with that, we headed north toward the caprock and launched a rescue mission to save . . .
    I was still having a little trouble believing this was happening.

Chapter Twelve: Happy Endings Aren’t as Simple as You Might Think

    W e zoomed past the mailbox and headed north. Drover broke the silence. “You don’t reckon we might see any coyotes, do you.”
    â€œAre you joking?”
    He started laughing. “Yeah, I was just joking.”
    â€œThat was a good joke, Drover, because up in that rough country, the coyotes are as thick as fleas.”
    All at once it appeared that Drover suffered a blowout on his left front paw. “Boy howdy, this old leg just went out on me, Hank! I was afraid that might happen, I never should have pushed it so hard.”
    â€œHurry up, son, this is a race against time.”
    He was falling farther behind. “You’d better go on without me, Hank, I don’t want to hold you back. I’ll see you guys back at the house.”
    I didn’t have time to mess with Drover. The seconds were ticking away, and with every tick of the tock, uh clock, Pete the Barncat was coming closer to . . .
    I still couldn’t believe I was doing this.
    I hit that big sand draw just east of the prairie dog town and followed it north to the base of the caprock. Up ahead, I could see the lone hackberry tree where I’d dumped him off . . . uh, left him . . . delivered him, shall we say.
    Since I didn’t know what I’d find there, I approached it with maximum caution. Some twenty-five yards out, I slowed to a walk and shifted into Stealthy Crouch Mode. I eased up to a bluff and glanced around in all directions. I peered over the top and saw . . .
    Pete the Barncat, surrounded by two hungry-looking coyotes who reminded me very much of two long-limbed, yellow-eyed, slack-jawed, utterly humorless cannibal brothers named Rip and Snort.
    Yes, it WAS Rip and Snort, and it had certainly been nice knowing old Pete and I kind of regretted losing him after I had gone to the trouble of running all the way to the caprock, because nobody takes cats away from Rip and Snort.
    I mean, you talk about guys who