Page 11 - Super Cowboy Rides Again

spruce tree. As I caught a whiff of a yellow, drippy
splotch, I thought I would lose what meager breakfast I
had eaten.

I held my nose to quiet my stomach. “Grandma,
what is that horrible smell?”

Grandma looked over at me from her position
rummaging around in the garage. “Rotten eggs,” she
answered. “A bunch of no-gooders hit my house with
them last night—probably an end-of-school thing.
Why, if I ever catch them, I’ll make them sorry for the
day they were born.”

By the look on Grandma’s face, I knew she meant
it. “Did you call the police?” I asked.

“The police,” Grandma growled, “couldn’t find a
haystack the size of the county, let alone a needle. The
only thing they’ve caught in ten years is a cold.”

Then, with a scowl from her, I knew I had better
get cleaning if I knew what was good for me. I
scrubbed, and the eggs came off quite easily, but they

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