Читать книгу The Case of the Shipwrecked Tree - John R. Erickson - Страница 6

Chapter One: We Learn about the Turkey Rebellion

It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. The Case of the Shipwrecked Tree began in the spring of the year, as I recall. Yes, of course it did. Drover and I never would have joined up with a pirate captain in the wintertime, because, well, who wants to make an ocean voyage when it’s cold? Not me.

But that came after we got the news about the Turkey Rebellion. Have we discussed that? Maybe not. It was a pretty scary deal . . . but maybe we’d better slow down and take things one at a time.

Okay, it was spring. Warm days, chilly nights, spring foliage on all the trees. The buzzards, kites, sparrows, and cardinals had returned to the ranch after spending the winter . . . somewhere. Down south, I suppose.

Why do they leave every fall? I have no idea. Ask a bird. I consider it a huge waste of time and effort. Come spring, they just turn around and fly right back. Dumb birds.

What’s the point? If they don’t like it around here, why do they keep coming back, and if they do like it here, why do they always leave? It makes no sense to me, but let me hasten to point out that I’m not a bird. Maybe you had already noticed that.

Where were we? Oh yes. Birds. Every year in the fall, our summer birds leave and fly south. We don’t know why and we don’t care, but some birds stay here over the winter. One type of bird that stays on the ranch year-round is the wild turkey.

Most of the time, your wild turkeys are okay birds. They don’t bother me and I don’t bother them. They run in flocks, roost in cottonwood trees, and steal grain from the horses, which is fine with me because I’m not fond of horses. However—

There’s always a “however,” isn’t there? I had never supposed that our local turkey population might be involved in a sophisticated spying operation until . . .

It all began in the early morning hours, as I recall. I was sitting at my desk in the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex beneath the gas tanks, going over some files and reports. I had hardly slept in days, I mean, the routine of running the ranch had kept me up day and night for so long, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d grabbed a nap.

You might say I was “off duty,” but that doesn’t mean much. In this line of work, there is no “off duty.” If we’re not working traffic on the county road or guarding the chicken house or checking out enemy spies, we’re back at the office, reading reports.

That’s what I was doing—slumped over my desk and reading a Monster Report, #MR-1055327—when all at once, Drover came bursting in.

“Hank, come quick! The wild turkeys are coming right up to the gas tanks! I tried to bark ’em away, but one of ’em pecked me on the nose.”

“Hose nose snorking mork beetlebomb.”

“I thought you’d want to know, and maybe you’d better wake up.”

“I can’t wake up, Drivel, because I’m not asniggle.”

“Yeah, you are asleep. I can tell, ’cause you’re stretched out on your gunnysack and your eyes are closed. You can’t fool me.”

I turned toward the sound of his voice and tried to beam him a gaze of purest steel, but the office was totally dark and I couldn’t see him. “Churn on the lice, Droving, I’m having trouble bubble guttersniping the hogwash.”

“I’m right here, if you’ll just open your eyes.”

Suddenly, I realized that something was wrong, badly wrong. I leaped to my feet, staggered three steps to the north, and collapsed again. “Holy strokes, Dobber, I’ve been blinded! I fought them off as long as I could, but the turkeys kept coming for our pork chops!”

“My name’s Drover.”

Suddenly my eyes . . . hmmm, my eyes popped open, almost as though they’d been closed, and all at once I saw light and objects and . . . hmmm, a smallish white dog with a stub tail. “Who are you and why are you honking the catfish bait?”

“Well . . . I’m not sure about that, but I’m Drover. Remember me? I’m your best friend.”

I blinked my eyes and struggled to my feet. “Yes, of course. How badly am I hurt?”

He gave me a foolish grin. “Well . . . I don’t think you’re hurt at all. I think maybe you were asleep and you’re not awake yet.”

I staggered two steps to the west. The bleeding had stopped and my legs seemed to be working. “For your information, I was not asleep. I was reading a monster report and . . .” I shot a glance over my shoulder. “Wait a second. You’re Drover, aren’t you? Welcome back, son. How was Cowabonga? You went on a trip, right?”

“Not me. I’ve been here forever.”

“Just as I thought.” I blinked my eyes and shook the vapors out of my head. My mind began to climb back into the driver’s seat of my . . . something. “Okay, Drover, I’m beginning to see a pattern here. I was reading files and reports, and something caused me to lose consciousness.”

“Yeah, you fell asleep.”

“It wasn’t that simple, Drover. There’s always more. These things are never as simple as we think.”

“I’ll be derned.”

I began pacing, as I often do when my mind is beginning to focus like a laser bean. “My guess is that they broke into the office and sprinkled sleeping powder on those files. How else can you explain my sudden loss of consciousness?”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“They, Drover, our enemies. They’re clever beyond your wildest dreams, and they have agents and spies at work around the clock. Have you seen any strangers in the last two hours?”

“Well, let me think. Oh yeah, I saw some turkeys, and that’s what I came to tell you. There are some turkeys lurking around the gas tanks.”

I stopped pacing and pondered his words. “Turkeys lurking? Drover, this is just a hunch, but I have a feeling that there’s some hidden meaning behind those words. Did you notice that they rhyme?”

His eyes lit up. “Yeah, and you know what else? If one of the turkeys was named Murphy, it would rhyme even better: Murphy Turkey Lurking.”

“Drover, please try to be . . .” I ran those words back and forth through my mind. “Murphy Turkey Lurking. Hmmm. You know, you might have stumbled onto something important. Those three words have a very suspicious ring, almost as though they were meant to go together.”

“Yeah, and I came up with ’em all by myself.”

“Don’t get carried away, son. This is just the tip of the ice pick. The question we must ask ourselves now is ‘Why are the turkeys lurking?’ Is it possible that they’re plotting a rebellion?”

“Well, let’s see here . . .”

“And who is this Murphy character?”

“Well . . .” Drover rolled his eyes around. “You don’t reckon he might be . . . a spy, do you?”

I glared at the runt. “A spy? Don’t be absurd. Turkeys are harmless birds, and also they’re not very smart. Nobody would recruit a turkey to be a spy. In other words, no. Your theory doesn’t cut water.”

“Oh drat.” His face fell into a heap of wrinkles, but then he brightened. “Wait a second. What if he’s not a turkey at all, but he’s a spy . . . wearing a turkey suit?”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Drover, sometimes you say the craziest—a spy wearing a turkey suit? Ha, ha! Why, that’s . . .” I gave it some thought. “On the other hand, it would be clever, wouldn’t it? I mean, nobody would ever suspect . . . it’s just the sort of trick “they” might come up with. Of course! A Turkey Rebellion! You know, Drover, you might have just blown this case wide open.”

All at once he was hopping up and down. “Oh goodie, I’m so happy!”

“But once again, we can’t allow ourselves to get carried away. For you see, Drover, our work on this case has just begun.” I shot a glance at the wild turkeys. All at once they looked very suspicious. “We need a volunteer.”

His smile faded. “Oops. You mean . . .”

“Yes, Drover, you’ve been chosen, out of all the dogs in the world, to volunteer for a very important mission.”

“Well, you know, I’d love to volunteer, but this old leg sure has—”

“It’s a great opportunity, son. It’ll give you a chance to prove who you really are.”

“Yeah, but I already know. I’m the one who’s scared of turkeys.”

“Rubbish. Turkeys are harmless. Now listen carefully.” I glanced over my shoulders and dropped my voice to a hoist . . . to a whisper, let us say. “Go back out there and infilterate their group. Be polite, turn on your charm, get to know them and win their confidence. Listen to their conversation and try to determine which one is Murphy the Spy. When you get a positive ID, come back and we’ll plan our next move.”

“Well . . . if you really think I can do it. Should I pretend that I’m a turkey?”

“No, I don’t think that would work. Your legs are too short, and you’ve got a stub tail. Just pretend you’re a dog—a dog who wants to get to know a few turkeys.”

“I think I can do it, ’cause I really am a dog.”

“Right. Good luck, soldier. I’ll stay here at Command Central and man the rodeo.”

“You mean the radio?”

“That’s what I said. I’ll stay here and man the radio.”

“Yeah, but you’re not a man.”

“All right, Drover, I’ll stay here and dog the radio. Now get moving. We’ll meet back here at oh-eight hundred.”

“Okay, here I go!”

I watched as he went skipping away—a happy little dog who had found a place for himself in the big wide world. I felt a glow of fatherly pride, knowing that I had helped bring a small ray of meaning into the garbage heap of his life.

Then he disappeared from sight and I was alone again—alone with my thoughts and the mementos of a long and glorious career, alone in the echoing chambers of the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex. I heaved a sigh and returned to the grinding routine of . . . snork murk snickelfritz . . .

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