“Mr. Barley’s new steer,” Cub says as if I haven’t figured this out. “What are they freaked about?”
The answer—a yellow blur—shoots out through the hedge opening faster than a racehorse comes out of a starting gate. My fear at what the blond streak is wrestles with my excitement at seeing him home again. “Dead End!”
G.D. pales.
Cub flushes red and points. “They’re headin’ for the road!”
CRASH! The steer and dog plow through Mr. Barley’s old rail fence as if it were toothpicks held together with dental floss.
“Jeez!” Cub pulls at his hair again. “If that dog is wounded, it sure isn’t slowin’ him down any!”
At the same time, stocky Mr. Barley, in his dirt-smudged baseball cap, shoots through the opening in the hedge. He stops, staring with his mouth open at the smashed and splintered fence. After a half minute, he turns to G.D., Cub, and me. “I heard yellin’.” He looks back at the field. “Did I see a dog chasing my steer?”
My mouth moves, but no words come out. Cub just stares at the shattered fence.
“That’s a freezer full of beef goin’ down the road,” Mr. Barley announces, his voice cracking with his growing panic. “I spent two paychecks on that meat.”
“Good-bye hamburger. Good-bye sirloin,” Cub mutters for my ears only.
“Did you get a look at that dog?” Mr. Barley comes toward us, breathing hard now, his face rash-red and as strained as a balloon about to pop. “I bet it’s one of those pack dogs everyone’s been talkin’ about.” Fred looks right at me, his expression hard. “Where’s your dog?”
G.D. blinks as if he isn’t sure what he’s seen. I hold my breath, hoping with everything I have that he and Cub don’t rat out Dead End.
Flustered and frantic, Mr. Barley pulls at the visor of his baseball cap as he turns on his heels, not waiting for anyone to answer his question. “I’m calling Sheriff Hawks. We’ve got to go after that dog and round up my steer before they’re fit for nothing but beef jerky.” He jogs back the way he came, a bobbing barrel in overalls, moving faster than I’ve ever seen him go.
G.D. still gapes at the fence. “Never would have thought Dead End would do anything like that.” Shaking his head, slumped and deflated, G.D. works his cane toward the ranch. “Guess you were right, Dill. Bob must not have our dog. Still, we got more than our share of trouble. Lyon won’t keep a pooch that chases animals.”
“Or kills them,” Cub mutters.
I plant my riding boot hard on his foot for that.
“Oouuff! Dill!”
G.D. crosses the yard, slower than slow. “I wish I could have taken Dead End to that shelter,” he mutters without looking back at us.
When he steps inside, I start for the bikes. “Come on,” I call to Cub. “We’ve got to get to Dead End.” But then the telephone rings inside the ranch. Could it be Mr. Kryer again? Or maybe someone else who’s seen a yellow dog on the run? I only hesitate a second before I fly into the house. There, I pass G.D. and throw myself at the telephone on the wall at the far end of the kitchen. “Hello?”
“Hey, Dill, it’s Tucker Hunter.”
“Oh, hi…” I suddenly picture Crossfire’s bridle on a bale instead of in the tack room. My heart begins thudding.
In the same moment, G.D. makes his way into the kitchen, looking as frail and as delicate as a dried leaf. Cub comes up behind him.
“Remember what I told you about that dog Bob Kryer trapped in his barn?” Ms. Hunter’s voice sounds too serious.
“Yes, ma’am.”
G.D. makes his way across the kitchen. Cub pushes up beside me, and mouths Who is it?
“Well,” Ms. Hunter continues, “Bob just discovered that the dog has escaped. It dug a hole deep enough to squeeze out of and crawled under the stall door.”
“Oh?” I picture Dead End’s pink-scraped nose. My heart somehow goes to my ears where it thumps a wild rhythm. Even the sweet scent of Mom’s blueberry muffins doesn’t calm me.
Ms. Hunter sighs. “The sheriff is organizing a huge search for this dog and offering a reward for anyone who brings it in, dead or alive.”
My head begins spinning. I nod to show that I’ve heard her—as if she can see me. The oven timer starts beeping, announcing that the muffins are done.
As Cub pulls them from the oven, G.D. studies me like he knows something isn’t good. But instead of hanging around to question me, he works his cane in a bobbing crawl, out of the kitchen. He heads toward his room, and doesn’t even seem to care about breakfast.
“Sheriff Hawks wants to talk to your dad about this,” Ms. Hunter tells me. “I’m not sure why. Is he there?”
“No,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t sound shaky. “I’ll tell him you called. And I got to go,” I stammer, watching G.D. move down the hall.
“Oh, okay, Dill.”
She barely gets out good-bye before I hang up. “Come on, Cub.” I head for the back door. “That dog Mr. Kryer caught has escaped.”
Cub drops the muffin tin. It hits the stove top with a loud, metallic clank. “Escaped?”
I throw myself back outside instead of answering and grab my bike. Cub follows me. “We got to get Dead End before someone mistakes him for the dog Mr. Kryer captured,” I explain.
“Dill, the man had your dog,” Cub says in a short and impatient tone, accusing Dead End for at least the third time in two days—three more times than necessary.
Instead of telling him to clap his trap shut, I take off on my bike, tearing down the road with him close behind me. But as we come around the bend near his driveway, he skids to a clanking, rubber-burning stop smack in front of Donny and Danny, his oldest brothers. As much as we need to find Dead End, Cub can’t pass his family.
Donny drops his shovel, straightens, and smiles at me. “Hey, Dill. Good to see you.”
As worried as I am about the pooch, I thank the heavens that my suddenly weak legs don’t give out and leave me face-down on the road. With dirt in my teeth.
Cub’s father, who is standing beside the Petersons’ idling silver pickup truck, turns and throws me that droopy-eyed pity look that I hate worse than people telling me how I should go to Fairfax. If the minister asks me one more time when I want to talk about Mom, I’ll shrug again, and try not to scream NEVER!
“Cub, Dill,” he says in his creamy-smooth tone. “Did you see a dog chasing steer?”
“Dogs? Steer?” My voice squeaks. Cub’s father can probably read my guilt like oversized print.
Mr. Herb Peterson leans out of the pickup. Bald as a boiled egg, his head shines in the sun. “I didn’t get a good look, but I think I saw a white or yellow dog.”
The minister’s forehead crinkles. “Your dog still at your house, Dill?”
Grateful that Cub hasn’t told the minister anything about Dead End, I force a grin and nod, hoping that head bobbing doesn’t count as a lie. By some miracle, Cub’s father accepts this and turns back to Mr. Peterson.
Shaking his head and grumbling his disappointment with me under his breath, Cub climbs off his bike and pushes it over to his brothers (who make a set, each with the Bayer summer buzz cut). I follow, doing my best not to gawk at Donny.
Cub, still ripe-apple red, tries to act calm. “Where’d that dog chasin’ the steer go?”
“Mr. Peterson thinks they ran onto our property,” Donny tells us in his deep voice.
Danny tips his head at the Emerald Hill Sheep Farm sign on the door of Herb Peterson’s truck. “He thinks the dog is one of the mutts that killed his prize sheep.”
My throat dries up.
“Let’s take a look around your property,” Mr. Peterson says to the minister. “Before I call the sheriff.”
“Sounds good.” The minister moves to the passenger side of the Peterson truck and opens the door. “Boys, finish laying the gravel while I’m gone.”
“Yes, Sir,” Donny answers.
As the truck peels out, Danny turns on Cub. “You know somethi
ng about that dog they’re looking for.” Danny grins, glances at Donny. “Check out the runt’s face. He’s guilty red and ready to explode.”
“We got to go,” I croak.
“Don’t go getting attached to a dog the way you did to Blackie’s pup,” Donny warns Cub. Then Donny lifts his shovel. “Now get out of here before I make you shovel stone.”
Cub throws himself back onto his bike and spins out.
“And Dill,” Donny adds, “let us know if you need anything. Anything at all. Okay?”
Even though just the sniff of sympathy gnaws on my nerves, I force a half-smile and mutter sure. For Donny. Then I pedal hard to catch up with Cub.
“They’ll tell my dad I’m hiding somethin’,” he says when I reach him.
“No, family sticks by you when there’s trouble,” I point out, handing him Mom’s words and hoping with all I have that they’re true. “Come on. Let’s go to the stable. Maybe Dead End went that way.”
* * *
Breathing heavy and running hot, we barely step into the barn when Ms. Hunter comes at us, her long, red braid swinging. “Hey, Dill. Hey, Cub.” She smiles easy. “Dill, could you please clean out the horse trailer? Jerry will be taking it to Ohio to pick up show horses I bought last week.”
Since I can’t say no to her, I glance at Cub. His nod says that he’ll keep looking for Dead End. “Sure,” I answer. “I’ll clean out that trailer right away.”
“I knew I could count on you.” She starts to walk away, grinning over her shoulder at me. “How would you like to help me with these new horses? I’d like you to ride them all and see what they can do.”
My face explodes into a smile. I sputter because words flat out leave me.
Cub laughs and pushes my arm as Ms. Hunter turns a corner. “Nice.”
“Dill riding Ms. Hunter’s new horses.” Skeeter steps out of the tack room. “Doesn’t that figure.” He grips his silver-handled crop in a white-knuckled fist as he glares at Cub and then me.
Cub clenches his own fists. “What’s it to you, Skeeter? Jealous because Ms. Hunter knows Dill is a better rider than you?”
Skeeter glares at Cub with a look that says eat horse manure and die. Then he turns to me, his eyes narrowing. “Miss Hunter just feels sorry for you because your…”
“Shut your trap,” I shout. “I swear, Skeeter, I’ll…”
Cub grabs my arm, cutting off my threat. “Don’t let him know he’s getting to you, Dill,” he whispers quick into my ear.
Too late. From now until the end of time, Skeeter will be reminding me of why Ms. Hunter feels sorry for me.
“You haven’t mucked out my horse’s stall yet, Dill,” the Mosquito adds in a taunting tone. “And Miss Velvet needs her hooves picked, too. Now.” His left eye twitches in a kind of warning.
“Why don’t you take a hoof pick and…?”
“Dill!” Cub jabs me with his elbow. “Come on. We’ve got better things than loser insects to worry about.”
I scowl at Skeeter, knowing I can’t risk him opening his big mouth about Dead End to Ms. Hunter. “I’ll take care of Miss Velvet after I clean the trailer.”
“No. Do it now!” Skeeter jabs the silver handle of his crop at me, barely missing my nose. “I told Ms. Hunter, Jerry Smoothers, and everyone in this stable how we’re buddies now.” Skeeter’s face tips down in what I’d call embarrassment as he says this. For a split second, I get what Mom meant when she said the kid needed to be included. But then he lifts his face again, squinting at me with fresh meanness. “So, don’t argue with me, pal. Unless you want me to tell Ms. Hunter about the dog I saw you with.”
I glare back at him, picturing myself cramming his crop down his throat.
Cub points past Skeeter. “Stubs!”
He wheels around, waving his crop. Cub laughs so hard that he bends over. I grab the chance, turn a corner, and head down the aisle toward Miss Velvet’s stall, hoping with all I have that Mr. Smoothers doesn’t catch me running. I’m thinking Cub can search for Dead End while I take care of Skeeter’s horse, to keep the kid quiet. And then I’ll deal with the trailer.
But I barely lead Miss Velvet into the aisle, clip rope lines to either side of her halter, and pull my hoof pick from my back pocket when Ms. Hunter’s voice fills the barn. “Cub! Call Dr. Kitt and the sheriff! Tell them to get here fast!” Before he can ask why, Ms. Hunter comes around the corner and right at me.
I freeze, stunned that Ms. Hunter, of all people, is running here. “What’s going on?”
She ducks under the rope lines attached to Miss Velvet’s halter and continues toward the back entrance. “Dogs just attacked Socrates and Plato!” Her voice quivers.
A sharp ping rings out as the hoof pick falls from my hand and hits the floor.
“Dogs.” Skeeter slides up behind me. “Friends of yours, I bet, Dill.”
“Shut your trap,” I warn in my meanest voice before taking off after Ms. Hunter.
* * *
Outside, Jerry Smoothers is kneeling by the riding ring.
“Jerry, what happened?” Ms. Hunter’s voice sounds weak and wobbly, as if she’s going to cry.
He looks up, breathing hard, his eyes soft for a change, from where he leans over the fallen goat beside the gate. His lips quiver slightly, almost unnoticeably. “Two dogs ran the goats until they were exhausted, then separated them,” he says between heaving breaths. He glances down at the goat and strokes the top of his head. Maybe Ms. Hunter is right about him being nicer than he seems. “One of those flea bags attacked Plato.”
My hands start shaking. “Are you sure?” I struggle to keep my panic out of this question. “I mean, I didn’t hear any barking or…”
“I chased them off myself,” Jerry snaps, “but not soon enough. And there was more growling and snarling than barking. You wouldn’t have heard it from inside the barn.”
Ms. Hunter swoops down, and strokes the goat’s face. “My poor, poor Plato.”
I wince at the ripped, oozing wound on his neck.
A trembling goat bleat echoes out from within the stable.
Ms. Hunter’s head lifts. “Socrates got back to their stall. Thank goodness for that.”
Socrates cries again. Plato calls back—a weak and pitiful sound. He tries to stand, but Jerry Smoothers holds him down.
“Let’s carry him to his stall, Jerry,” Ms. Hunter says. “He’ll feel more secure inside, with Socrates.”
Together, they lift and slowly carry the wounded goat back to the stable. He fusses only a little, seeming to know these two are trying to help.
Cub meets us in the doorway, clutching Ms. Hunter’s cell phone. “Dr. Kitt is on his way and … Look at his neck.” Cub drops the phone, and then smacks his hands over his nose and mouth. “I might throw up,” he mumbles through his fingers.
Ms. Hunter and Jerry disappear into the stable with Plato. When they’re out of hearing range, Cub pushes a crumpled page at me. “Skeeter shoved this my way.”
The note crinkles in my hands. “After Dill picks Miss Velvet’s hooves,” I read aloud, “BOTH OF YOU better muck out her stall. Then we’re going to see a movie. My mother will drive us.”
“What?” I can hardly believe this. “Movies? Did he get kicked in the head by his horse?”
Cub clenches his fists. “I’m not sittin’ through any movie with that Mosquito.”
“Me, neither.” Even though I can almost hear Mom reminding me that Skeeter is a lost pup that needs a pack, I can’t take even the thought of hanging out with him. Ever.
I keep reading. “And remember, Dill has to back out of the horse show or I’ll tell everyone your secret.”
“That’s it. Manure’s gonna be dumped over his head,” Cub snarls. “I’m gonna…”
A familiar dog yip interrupts. Cub and I look at each other with wide eyes. I grab the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Did that sound like Dead End to you?”
CHAPTER 12
PLENTY OF TROUBLE
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��You see anything?” As usual, Jerry Smoothers’s question comes out as a demand. “I thought I heard a dog.” His hand becomes a rigid visor over his eyes. He scowls as he scans the riding ring, the woods, and the path that leads into the trees.
When Cub squints at that trail, he stiffens. His cheeks flush that we’re in trouble red that I’m getting real tired of seeing.
Trying to stay calm, I glance back at Jerry. “I don’t see anything,” I tell him, relieved that this isn’t a lie.
“Stay here. Keep looking,” he snaps. “I’ll call the sheriff.” Then he limps back to the barn, grumbling something about mangy mutts and how much trouble they cause.
The man barely disappears when Cub grabs my arm, points at some low pine tree branches that are shaking and brushing the edge of the riding path. A black nose scraped pink, attached to a yellow muzzle, pokes out from the tree skirt. Brown eyes that broadcast guilt peer at Cub and me from between green needles. My heart near beats through my chest. “Dead End,” I whisper, as I start for the tree.
Cub grabs my arm. “Startle that dog and he’ll run from here to China.”
So I swallow my urge to sprint and move with Cub, as slow as cold molasses. “He’s one sad pooch,” I say as we get closer.
“Sad? Dill, Plato just got attacked. What does that tell you?”
I don’t want to answer, can’t bring myself to speak. I glance back at the barn to be sure Jerry hasn’t come back out, and then I drop to my knees. I stare into Dead End’s eyes and see a familiar sadness called mourning.
“It’s okay,” I say after a moment. “I know you’re sorry for chasing those steer.” I swallow hard. “And you didn’t go after the goats, did you? You came here to be with people going about their day as if everything is fine. I know.”
Dead End whines, inches toward me, keeping his head down and his tail low.
Cub mutters something under his breath, but then bunches up his face as the pooch moves even closer. “His nose—it’s covered in blood and dirt!”
Dog Gone Page 11
