Chapter Fifteen: Warning! This Chapter Contains Cannibal Material!

It was Rip and Snort, the very thugs I had planned to avoid, and would have avoided if the stinking horses hadn’t messed up my plan. My first thought was that I had landed myself in a big mess of trouble, but then I noticed an important detail.

The brothers didn’t look their usual selves—not fearsome and ferocious but wilted, worn out, and bedraggled. They were lying in the shade, see, and hardly moving, panting for air while their tongues dripped water and their eyes held me in a listless gaze.

All at once, a bold thought popped into my mind. “I think I can talk my way out of this.” So instead of trying to run away, as most of your ordinary mutts would have done, I switched on a pleasant smile. “Hey, Rip and Snort, great to see you again! How’s it going? Beautiful day, huh?”

With great effort, Snort mumbled, “Dutiful day for dummy ranch dog. Not so dutiful for coyote brothers.”

“Really? Gee, what seems to be the problem?”

“Day too hotter and hottest for coyote wearing fur coat.”

I moved closer and studied their wooden eyes. “Yes, I see what you mean. Snort, I hate to tell you this, but you guys look awful.”

“Hunk not look so wonderful, too.”

“Right. It’s this heat. And you know, fellas, on a day like today, the last thing a guy would ever think about is . . . well, food. Eating. Am I right about that?” No response. “I mean, just think about eating a piece of dry cornbread when your mouth is already parched.”

“Hunk not talk about cornbread. Make Snort’s mouth feel like bag of dirt.”

“Right, that’s what I mean. It’s way too hot and dry to be thinking about crumbly powdery CORNBREAD.”

Snort shot me a killer look, rose to his feet, and rumbled over to me. “Hunk shut trap and not talk about dry stuff when coyote brothers got big boom-boom thirsty in mouth!”

“Well, sure. I was just . . .”

Up came his right paw and he clubbed me over the head. BONK! “Hunk shut trap.”

“I can handle that, and besides, I need to be getting along anyway.” I began edging toward the west. “I’m starting a new job and, well, I wouldn’t want to be late.”

“Ha, ha, ha!”

“No, I’m serious. Showing up late on the first day would be no laughing matter.”

“Ha ha ha!”

“But you keep laughing.”

“Maybe Hunk stick around for supper, oh boy.”

“Supper? In this heat? Who could think about . . . listen, maybe we could discuss this another time. What do you say?”

They said nothing, just stared at me and ran their respective tongues over their chops. I was getting a bad feeling about this and decided that it might be a good time to test out our new Turbo Six application. I reached for the throttle and pushed it to the Blast Off Position. The engines screamed and I went zooming . . .

BAM!

Up to that very moment, the brothers had seemed as lifeless as rocks, but when I reached for the throttle, they sprang into action and blocked my path. I hit ’em with a full head of steam. It was like a gnat hitting a barn door.

Snort raised his lips and showed me two rows of gleaming fangs. “Hunk stick around till cool of evening when coyote feel more hungry for eat.”

I coughed and struggled to my feet. “Oh. Well, since you put it that way . . . sure, what the heck.” I turned away from them so they couldn’t see the fear in my eyes. I mean, this deal had taken a big turn for the worse and I didn’t want them thinking that I was . . . well, scared out of my wits, which I was.

So I turned my face toward the south and suddenly realized that I was looking at a very important piece of information that had escaped me up to then: THE CREEK HAD GONE DRY.

Do you see the meaning of this? Maybe not, but I did, and a new plan began taking shape in the vast caverns of my mind. “So you guys are thirsty? Is that what you said?”

“Guys got big boom-boom thirsty in mouth.”

“Well, gee whiz, why don’t you just get a drink?”

The brothers hacked out a jagged laugh, and Snort pointed toward the creek. “Creek gone dry, gee whiz no water.”

“Well, sure, but what about root beer?” They gave me empty stares. “You don’t know about the root beer deposits below the sand?” More blank stares. “Oh, well, I’m sorry I mentioned it. You’d probably think it was too much trouble anyway. Don’t give it a thought.”

The brothers went into a whispering conference, then Snort said, “Brothers not believe in root beer.”

“That’s fine, Snort. We can still be friends, even though you don’t believe in root beer.”

They whispered some more, then, “Ranch dog tell Rip and Snort about root beer.”

“How can I tell you about root beer if you don’t believe in it?”

Snort came rumbling over to me and showed me a clenched paw. “Snort believe in break Hunk’s face. Talk!”

“All right, but you don’t need to be so hateful about it.” I launched into a long discussion about how, in periods of drought, the creeks run dry and all the sweetness of the earth flows out of tree roots below the sand and forms vast reserves of root beer. “All you have to do is dig down into the sand and you’ll strike root beer.”

They howled with laughter and whopped each other on the back. “Hunk tell pretty funny story, but Rip and Snort not believe one word.”

“Well, that’s fine. I didn’t want to share it anyway. I mean, you guys may be bigger and stronger and faster than me, but don’t forget that this is still my ranch—my ranch, my roots, and my root beer.”

Behind my back, I could hear them whispering and a moment later, Snort loomed up beside me. He pointed toward the creek bed. “Hunk dig.”

“Yes, but you said . . .”

“Hunk dig! And better find root beer pretty quick, oh boy!”

He gave me a shove and stood over me while I started digging. “Snort, don’t expect miracles. These things take time.” I dug and dug. Ten minutes passed, and I had built a hole maybe two feet deep.

Snort stared into the hole and made a sour face. “Sand still dry. Hunk dig faster.”

“Hey listen, it’s hot out here. I’m digging as fast as I can.”

I dug some more, while Snort sniffed the sand for signs of moisture. Three feet down, I was still pulling up dry sand, and I’ll bet you’re starting to worry. Maybe you’re thinking: “Hank’s really done it this time, telling the cannibal brothers a big whopper about root beer under the ground.”

Good point. I mean, never make a cannibal mad before suppertime, right? That’s good advice, the kind of common sense wisdom that can help a dog live a long and happy life. But here’s the scoop. There was one particle of truth in the story. In the heat of summer, the creek sometimes goes dry, but you can always find wet sand, and sometimes even water, if you dig down far enough.

Now do you see where this is going? If not, just sit back and enjoy the show. I’m pretty sure you’ll be impressed.

Okay, I was digging a root-beer well in the middle of the dry creek bed on a very hot afternoon. Rip and Snort were about to die of thirst and stood over the hole, broiling in the sun and getting more impatient by the second.

At last, I hit some wet sand. “Here we go, guys, we’re almost there!”

Snort sniffed the wet sand and beamed a wicked grin. “Hunk better hurry up quick or brothers get madder and maddest!”

“Snort, I’m digging just as fast as I can.”

“Ha! Hunk dig like snail, slower than slow.”

“For your information, pal, I’m the fastest digger I ever met, and the fastest digger on this whole ranch.” The brothers roared with laughter. “Oh yeah? Do you know anybody who could dig faster?”

Snort stuck his nose close to my face. “Hunk dig like flea. Snort faster diggest in whole world, oh boy!”

Rip scowled, shook his head and grunted, “Uh-uh!” He pointed to himself, as if to say that he was the fastest digger in the whole world.

Snort made a sour face and glared down at me. “Hunk get out of hole.”

“What? Are you crazy? I started drilling this well and I’m going to take it all the way down to root beer, and no fleabag coyote is going to . . .”

In the blink of an eye, Snort darted his head into the hole, snapped his jaws around the scruff of my neck, jerked me out of the hole, and tossed me aside like stuffed toy.

Then he pounded his chest with both front paws and roared, “Now Hunk watch Snort dig up whole world!”

But while Snort was pounding his chest, Rip dived head-first into the hole and started moving dirt, only by then it was mud. The first plop of mud hit Snort right in the mouth and there for a second, I thought he was going to hurt somebody, either me or his brother. But then he smacked his lips and a big silly grin spread across his mouth.

“Uh! Root beer! Berry good for fix up boom-boom thirsty!” And with that, he leaped high in the air and dived into the hole. Dove. Diven. Phooey.

I could have told him that one hole in the sand, dug by one dog, isn’t big enough to hold two cannibals, but he didn’t ask and you can guess what happened next. All at once we had two coyotes wedged into a hole, and two sets of coyote legs cranking around like they were pedaling a bicycle, but without the bicycle.

And there was a bunch of noise coming from the bottom of that hole.

Well, this seemed a pretty good time for me to move along, but I couldn’t resist giving them one last good-bye. “How does it look, guys? Any sign of root beer yet? No? Well, darn the luck. Hey listen, if you make it to Australia, maybe somebody’ll bring you a glass of iced tea. See you around, suckers. Ha ha ha!”

You know, sometimes Security Work can fall into a dull routine, but there’s nothing dull about yelling, “See you around, suckers,” to a couple of helpless, stranded coyotes in a hole.

Wow! I loved it and went skipping off to my new assignment as Chief Arkinsawlogist of the Entire Wolf Creek District of Texas. What a great day to be a dog!

Of course there was one tiny problem with this incident. Once you’ve served up a smashing defeat to a couple of cannibals, you need to avoid them for a while. I mean, those guys are a few bales short of a full load of brains, but they’re bad about carrying a grudge.

Maybe I shouldn’t have called them suckers. Maybe I should have just walked away and kept my mouth shut. When you’re a winner, you don’t need to brag or boast or gloast, even though it’s great fun.

I reached for the notepad of my mind and scratched down a message. “Avoid all coyotes for six months.”

There! It was done and now I could turn my full attention to my new job assignment and . . . mercy, I had almost forgotten about her in all the excitement. The lovely Sardina Bandana. My mind pulled up a photograph of her as she was leaving my ranch, weeping rivers of tears and calling out my name.

I felt a new wave of energy coursing through my body. “Fear not, O Beloved, your Hank has fought his way through the cannibal armies and is coming to save you!”