Slingshot and Burp Read online

  Chapter 1

  Rodeo Ride

  Chapter 2

  Big Jim’s Lassos

  Chapter 3

  The Big Empty

  Chapter 4

  Pink Eye

  Chapter 5

  Squirting Skull

  Chapter 6

  Happy Tails to You

  Chapter 7

  The Boneyard at Night

  Chapter 8

  Ghost Cat

  Chapter 9

  Twisted Trail

  Chapter 10

  Jackpot!

  Slingshot and Burp were Wild West cowboys — well, that’s what they told themselves, anyway. They were looking for action. Heart-pounding action was their game. Danger didn’t scare them, not one plugged nickel. If an F-5 tornado roared past, they would jump on and ride it like Pecos Bill.

  Right then, Slingshot was eyeballing the scene from the back of his horse, Thunder (his bike, really, but who ever heard of a bike-riding cowboy?). “Boll weevil!” he said. “There’s no action around here. Not even a dust devil to chase.” Slingshot was born with ants in his pants and leaped after new ideas boots first.

  “I learned to burp ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’” offered Burp. “Check it out. Burp-burp-burp can you burrrrrrrp —”

  “Double aces! That’s some good burping,” said Slingshot, “but burping isn’t getting us time in the saddle. C’mon. Time to find us a cowboy adventure.”

  “Hold your horses.” Burp moved a tick slower than Slingshot. He liked to study a situation before charging in. “Don’t you want to hear me burp the rest? What about ‘home of the brave’?”

  Slingshot and Burp lived next door to each other, which meant that their backyards bumped smack up against each other. The yards were mostly dirt and prairie-dog mounds and didn’t have much more in them than a crooked swing set, two spiky cactus plants, and, toward a ditch at the back, a twisty cottonwood tree. Neither cowboy had ever poked a toe past that ditch. Out there was nothing but sand, rock, cacti, and coyotes. Straddling the two backyards was the only thing the cowboys really prized in that desert wasteland: the Rattlesnake Ranch Bunkhouse.

  The bunkhouse was where the cowboys took a load off and gave their dusty boots a rest. Really, it was a playhouse that they were supposed to share with their big sisters, but snake spit, the girls hardly ever used it, so the boys took it over and stored their gear in it: bedrolls, bandannas, spare bike parts, canteens, you name it.

  “We got everything?” asked Slingshot. “Cowboy boots?”

  “Check!” said Burp, shoving a wad of beef jerky into his mouth.

  “Cowboy hat and bandanna?”

  “Check and check!” slurped Burp, giving his hat a tug.

  “Horse?”

  “Check,” said Burp, throwing a leg over his own bike, Lightning.

  “Protector?” Slingshot asked, raising his Super-X slingshot and taking aim at an empty can of baked beans. Thwack! That can danced across the dusty yard.

  Burp pulled a Double-Barreled Spitball Blaster from his hip pocket. “Check,” he said. He jammed chewed-up beef jerky into the ends of two oversize straws and took aim at the wounded can.

  “Take that, you two-bit outlaw.” Thwap! Thwap! That dented can spun in circles.

  Something about the cowboys was even closer than their backyards. Their moms were sisters, which made the boys cousins. Believe it or not, the boys’ dads were brothers, too. That made Slingshot and Burp double cousins.

  Just then, the boys’ older sisters, McKenzie and Kate, rounded the corner of the house. The cowboys liked to think of them as the Scorpions.

  “Hey, cowburps,” said Slingshot’s sister, McKenzie. “FYI, Kate and I need the playhouse starting tomorrow, so get all your stuff out.”

  “It’s not your playhouse. It’s our bunkhouse,” protested Slingshot.

  “It’s not YOUR anything,” said McKenzie with pinched eyebrows. “It belongs to all of us, and you have to share. Like it or not, it’s our turn.”

  “Yeah, we have important business to take care of,” said Kate, Burp’s sister. “So make like the Lone Ranger and ride off into the sunset.” Kate blew a massive bubble-gum bubble and let it pop. “So there.”

  Howling with laughter, the girls turned and walked away.

  “What do you think those two are up to?” asked Slingshot.

  “Who knows?” said Burp. “I say, good riddance to bad varmints.” He spit in the girls’ direction.

  “Yeah, good riddance,” said Slingshot. “Ready to head out? I was thinking maybe it’s time to mosey out into the Boneyard.”

  “The Boneyard! For real?” said Burp.

  The desert beyond the ditch at the end of the cowboys’ yards was called the Big Empty by most folks in those parts. Big Jim, owner of Boots and Saddle Tack Shop on Main Street, called it the Boneyard. If Big Jim called it the Boneyard, Slingshot and Burp would, too. The way Big Jim told it, back in the Wild West days, many a cowboy had ridden out into the Boneyard, never to be seen again. Sure, a few turned up after a time, but only as a pile of bleached-out bones.

  “What do you want with the Boneyard?” Burp asked.

  “Let’s go try and find a skeleton!” said Slingshot. “Just think, with a skeleton, we could spook the Scorpions all the way out of the bunkhouse and into tomorrow.”

  “I’d like to see that,” Burp said, laughing. “But before we head out, let’s make sure they know what’s what.” The cowboys hopped off their rides and got busy scribbling their brand on the playhouse with red crayon: RR in a circle. They also branded their bikes, boots, and belt buckles.

  When there was nothing left to brand, the cowboys got back in their saddles and rode right up to the edge of the Boneyard. Although according to their dads it was little more than one square mile of dust, it suddenly seemed bigger than all of Texas.

  “Maybe we better go talk to Big Jim first,” said Burp. “You know, for some tips and stuff.”

  “Good idea,” Slingshot agreed. “He’ll know all the best places to find bones.”

  “Big Jim knows everything about everything,” agreed Burp.

  “Race ya there?” asked Slingshot.

  “Race ya there,” said Burp.

  “Giddyap!” Slingshot charged off on Thunder.

  Burp charged after him on Lightning, stirring up a swirl of dust. “Yippee!”

  Slingshot and Burp and Thunder and Lightning zigged around fire hydrants. They zagged around mailboxes. They charged down the bike lane on Main Street, past the Sinking Donut Coffee Shop and Slippery Larry’s Reptile Farm.

  They zoomed up to Boots and Saddle Tack Shop, hopped off their rides, and tore through the front door. Mmm. Their noses filled with a cowboy’s favorite smells — leather, rope, and coffee.

  “Whoa there, pardners,” said Big Jim with a grin. “Where’s the stampede?” Big Jim was a mountain of a man, with a broad, rugged face and a bushy, copper-colored beard.

  “We’re going to the Boneyard,” said Slingshot.

  “That so?”

  “Tell us all about when you went there,” said Burp. “We want to find a skeleton. But it’s so big. And empty! We want to make sure we don’t get lost and, you know, that we look in the right place.”

  The boys never knew for sure when Big Jim was sticking to the truth or stretching it, but one thing was certain: Big Jim was always good for an edge-of-your-seat story.

  Big Jim handed each of the boys a mug of hot chocolate with a splash of real coffee in it.

  “Mm-mmm!” said the boys after a sip. “Trail coffee.”

  “Let’s see. Oh, I can tell you about the once upon a time I was out hunting up rattlesnake eggs for breakfast and stumbled upon Windy Tucker’s skeleton. That skel
eton was stripped clean. Nothing left but bleached bones. Vultures and varmints had picked off every last speck of flesh.”

  “Whoa,” said Slingshot, practically jumping out of his boots. “Who was Windy Tucker? Was he an outlaw?”

  “Yep. And you know what else? When I found that old outlaw, he was still wearing his cowboy boots. His boots were hot-branded with the Flying W, Windy’s brand. That’s how I knew it was him.”

  Big Jim looked up at the shelf hanging high on the wall behind the cash register, the one he called the Shelf of Honor. On it sat a worn and cracked leather saddle, an old six-shooter, and a pair of dusty, cracked boots. Only one boot still had its spur, now rusted.

  “You mean . . . that’s them? Up there?” Slingshot pointed at the shelf. “Those are Windy’s boots?”

  “Yep! Those are Windy’s boots and gear,” said Big Jim.

  “Weren’t you scared when you found Windy’s bones?” asked Burp. “Were you worried his ghost might find you and haunt you at night?”

  “Burp,” Slingshot interrupted, “are you cracked? A rattlesnake in his undies wouldn’t scare Big Jim! Would it, Jim?”

  Big Jim tugged at his shirt collar. “Well, now, a rattlesnake . . .”

  “Where exactly did you find Windy’s bones?” asked Slingshot. “Can you draw us a map?”

  “Lookee here.” Big Jim lifted a replica of an old “wanted” poster that he kept in a stack on the counter. He flipped it over and hand-sketched a map as he spoke. “From your backyards, go a short ways in past the stone shelves to that big one-humped Camel Rock. See? That’s only about forty feet in.

  “Go maybe a hundred feet more, past Dry Spring Gully, and you’ll see a stand of old dead trees. From there, you’re within spitting distance of the storm basin. That’s Skull Valley. You should find plenty of bones there!”

  The boys each took a swallow of trail coffee.

  “Don’t even think of going farther than that,” Big Jim added.

  Burp choked on a swallow of his coffee before asking, “W-why not?”

  “’Cause then you’d be at the twisted canyons of the flattop mesas. That’s . . . the Maze. That’s one mixed-up place! It’ll spin a compass cuckoo-crazy.”

  “Whoa,” said Slingshot, leaning in.

  Big Jim rubbed his beard. “’Course you might be interested to know, boys, that I only ever found half of Windy’s skeleton.”

  “Half?” Burp repeated.

  “Yep! The bottom half. The top half of him is still out in the Boneyard somewhere, crawling around, looking for his legs and his loot.”

  “Loot? You never told us about any loot,” said Burp.

  “Some secrets are best kept till the exact right time,” said Big Jim.

  “Is this the exact right time?” asked Slingshot, cracking his knuckles.

  Big Jim took a long slow sip of coffee and leaned forward in his chair. “You bet your spurs it is!”

  “Tell us everything!” said Slingshot.

  “It goes back to a time when Windy was suddenly tossing money around town like it was horse feed. Some thought that maybe he’d hit the mother lode of all gold mines. There was only one problem with that theory: Windy didn’t own a gold mine.”

  “Did he have a rich uncle?” asked Burp.

  “That’s exactly what Sheriff T-Bone Badger was going to ask him, but before he could, Windy lit out across the Boneyard on his white stallion, Avalanche. Next day, the sheriff got word that Windy was in fact the leader of the Tombstone Gang.”

  “Wow! Was the Tombstone Gang a bunch of outlaws? Did they rob banks and stuff?” asked Slingshot.

  “They robbed anything that had money. Banks. Trains. Stagecoaches. Candy stores. Little old ladies’ purses. You name it, they robbed it. And you know what, boys? Legend has it that Windy hid all that stolen loot in the Boneyard. It may be out there still.”

  Slingshot stared up at the Shelf of Honor. “Nobody’s found the gang’s loot yet?”

  “Nope! And nobody ever found Sheriff Badger, either. He went off looking for Windy and never made it back. Some say the Ghost Cat ate him.”

  Burp gulped. “Ghost Cat?”

  “Yep! Way I heard it, a nine-hundred-pound mountain lion snatched the sheriff right out of the saddle and ate him in three bites. Might have been the same cat what bit Windy in half.”

  “Is that true?” asked Burp. “Or just a rumor?”

  “Half of all rumors are true. The other half could be,” said Big Jim.

  “Ghost Cat or not, Burp, we need to go look for that loot,” said Slingshot.

  “But a Ghost Cat . . .” said Burp.

  Big Jim reached under the counter and pulled out two ropes. “Take these lassos. Just in case, you know, one of your horses should fall into a devil’s slide —”

  “A what?” Burp asked, bug-eyed.

  “A devil’s slide: a sinkhole. It can swallow a horse up right fast. With these lassos, you can rope your horse and pull him out without falling in after him.”

  “Wow! Real lassos,” breathed Slingshot.

  “Still living the cowboy code I taught you?” Big Jim asked.

  The cowboys nodded, raised their right hands, and recited: “A cowboy is always ready. A cowboy helps anyone in need. A cowboy never gives up.”

  “Time for you cowboys to ride,” said Big Jim. “Take full canteens. It’s nothing but hot out there, and you can’t drink hot.”

  “To the Boneyard!” Slingshot shouted.

  “Loot, here we come,” Burp hollered, trying hard not to think about the Ghost Cat, the devil’s slide, or the other half of Windy crawling around in the desert, searching for his long-lost loot.

  The sun glared furnace-hot on the Boneyard. Sweat beaded across the cowboys’ brows. Slingshot hitched up his pants and spit. The spit never made it to the ground; the scorching sun had sucked it dry in a bullwhip second.

  “Did you see that?” asked Slingshot. “It must be over a hundred degrees out here.”

  “A hundred and one, at least,” said Burp. “Hey, you think the Ghost Cat is watching us right now? Or maybe it only comes out after dark.”

  “Probably only after dark,” said Slingshot.

  The cowboys rode slowly to Camel Rock, looking in every direction. Three vultures circled overhead in search of a meal: something stinky, something dead.

  “One way or the other, we’re getting our bunkhouse back,” said Slingshot. “Either we scare the Scorpions out, or we buy ’em out. So we need bones or loot.”

  “Yep!” Burp said, secretly hoping it would be loot.

  The cowboys rode past leaning shelves of rock and tall cacti.

  “What if the Ghost Cat is waiting to jump us?” asked Burp. “What if the Ghost Cat and Windy have teamed up? We could be vulture chow before sundown.”

  “Come on, Burp, stop being a desert turtle.”

  “What if we die of thirst? Or what if there’s a wild horse stampede and we’re trampled into dust? It could happen, you know,” said Burp.

  The cowboys arrived at a stand of dead trees and came to a stop. Skull Valley lay before them. Slingshot pointed to the wash past Dry Springs. “Map says that’s where the loot and bones are.”

  “This place gives me the creeps,” said Burp.

  “Do you want to let the Scorpions steal Rattlesnake Ranch, Burp? Do ya?”

  “No!” said Burp, inching closer to Slingshot.

  Finally, after rounding another bumpy rock, the cowboys stepped into Skull Valley. Broken stones and hollowed-out, fallen cacti littered the desert floor. Crooked shadows stretched across the sand.

  “It feels like a graveyard,” said Burp. “And turn around — we can’t even see our houses anymore.”

  “Knock it off, Burp. We’re not even a mile from home.”

  From somewhere just ahead of them, a blood-curdling screech erupted, then echoed off the canyon walls.

  “Ghost Cat!” yelped Burp. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “We’re sa
fe in the daytime,” said Slingshot, trying to sound sure of himself.

  “Think there are any snakes out here?” asked Burp.

  “They’re everywhere,” said Slingshot. “Under rocks, behind cacti, slithering sideways in the sand.” He mopped his face with his bandanna. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

  The boys kicked over every small rock. They poked into every nook and cranny. Sweat almost burned the eyes right out of their heads. Burp jumped a bit every time a little lizard or bug scurried across their path.

  “Boll weevil!” said Slingshot. “My mouth is as dry as a dust devil.”

  Burp pointed at a shimmering patch in the distance. “Look!” he said. “A lake!”

  “That’s a mirage!” said Slingshot. “Your eyes are playing tricks on you. Let’s take swigs of water from our canteens and keep watching for snakes.”

  Burp took another gulp of water, and Slingshot loaded his slingshot with a pebble from the ground. If a sidewinder or diamondback jumped out — thwack! — he’d give it to them right between the eyes.

  “Hold up,” said Burp. “There’s a saddlebag full of sand in my boot.” Burp plopped down on a big rock and yanked off his boot. As he was emptying it, he felt a tickle on his bare foot. He looked down and . . . froze. His lips were moving, but no words were coming out. Then, finally, “Giant . . . hairy . . . scorpion!” he squeaked, pointing at the dusty-brown critter perched on top of his left foot.

  Slingshot acted fast. He snapped off a shot. The scorpion went flying! When it finally landed, that scorpion spun in a circle, then dashed off under a yucca plant to hide. Slingshot whooped and reloaded, but Burp was hopping up and down on one foot and clutching his shin. “It got me! It got me! I’m done for.” Burp crumpled to the ground, still holding his shin.

  “Let me see,” said Slingshot. On Burp’s left shin was a shiny red bump.

  “I can feel the poison rushing through my blood,” croaked Burp. “It’s heading for my heart. I’m a goner.” Burp jumped up, clapped his hands over his chest, and took off running for home. Minus one boot.

  “Hey! Wait up!” Slingshot yelled. “Burrrrrp! Your boot!”