The Case of the Bone-Stalking Monster by John R. Erickson Page A

speak to me. It’s your old prison buddy, Hank the Cowdog. You’ve just been involved in a serious acci­dent. I think you’re going to be okay, but you need to speak to me. Say something. Ralph?”
    Nothing. He didn’t speak or move. I began pacing.
    â€œRalph, I’m feeling personally responsible for this. If I hadn’t tried to carry on a conversation with you while the pickup was moving, this never would have happened. I feel terrible about it.
    â€œSo would you please wake up? If you won’t wake up for yourself, wake up for me. Think of somebody besides yourself for a change. What am I supposed to do now? I mean, I can’t just walk away and leave you out here all alone in the pasture. I could never forgive myself.
    â€œBut the other side of that, Ralph, is that I’m a very busy dog. I’ve got a ranch to run, and by the way, it just occurs to me that my Bone Fortune needs to be checked. You see, we’ve had reports of a Bone Monster on the ranch . . .”
    I gazed down at him. He still hadn’t moved. I lowered my right ear to his nose and listened. Yes, he was breathing.
    I sat down and began what I feared would be a long virgil. Vigil. I sat down and waited for something to happen.
    Nothing happened. The minutes crawled by. I hate waiting. It drives me nuts. I was just about at the end of my rope of patience when, suddenly and all at once, my ears picked up the sounds of flapping wings.
    I turned to the left and saw two big black airplanes coming in for a landing. Good grief, they must have been enemy bombers, diving down for low-level . . .
    Okay, relax. They weren’t enemy bombers. They were buzzards, two of ’em.
    The first one touched down, rose again, touched down again with a thud, did three forward rolls, and got up running. He came straight over to me and my injured companion.
    He was dragging his wings and yelling. “Git back, step aside, make way for Emergency Air­borne Medical Services!”
    The second buzzard crash-landed several feet away and rolled into a cactus patch. The sight of these two crazed birds dropping out of the sky left me speechless.
    The first one came right up to my face—and let me tell you, fellers, that was one of the ugliest things I’d seen in a long time.
    He was yelling again. “I’m Doctor Buzzard, Emergency Airborne Medical Services. We’ve been called to the scene of a wreck. Where’s the victim?”
    I pointed to Ralph. “That’s him on the ground. His name’s Ralph.”

    â€œSon, we don’t care what his name is. The boy’s been hurt and that’s why we’re here. Junior, bring me my bag, and hurry, first chance you git.”
    Okay, it was Wallace and Junior, but I’d never known them to do anything like this before. It ap­peared that they had come to . . . well, help, if you can believe that. It seemed a little out of character, but we did need help so . . .
    Junior came limping up. “W-w-w-we d-didn’t bring a b-b-bag, P-pa.” He saw me there and waved his wing. “Oh, h-hi D-d-doggie.”
    â€œHow’s it going, Junior?”
    â€œOh, b-b-busy b-b-busy. W-w-we’re w-working wrecks today, today.”
    â€œYes, I see that. Is this something new for you guys?”
    â€œOh w-w-well, P-p-pa just thought w-w-we’d . . .”
    Wallace’s head flew up. “Son, quit talkin’ with the customers and give me a hand. Where’s my bag?”
    â€œW-w-we d-don’t h-h-have a b-bag, P-p-pa, and n-never did, never did.”
    â€œFine. We don’t need a bag. What matters is all this knowledge inside our heads. Get yourself in here and check this dog’s vital signposts. We ain’t got a minute to spare.”
    â€œP-pa?”
    â€œWhat!”
    â€œI l-l-landed in a c-c-cactus b-b-bush.”
    â€œAnd did you get spines and needles in your hide?”
    â€œY-y-yep, I d-d-did, and