Red Dog, Red Dog

by Patrick Lane

  Billy watched him go, then went over to the betting table where Joe was selling drinks and taking some last bets. He looked at the Winchester .30-30 leaning against Joe’s hip. Joe, as usual, showing off to people that he was guarding the money, that he was bigger than he really was. He sold a few last drinks, nothing revealed behind his half-closed lids. The men and women in the beer line had mostly thinned out, everyone looking around for a good spot to watch the match from, the crowd around the pit already three or four deep.

  Joe said: You made good money from Badger’s fight earlier. That dog of Carl’s rolled a lot faster than I thought it would. King’s lucky he got out of there alive.

  Billy popped the cap from a bottle of Old Style, took a long drink, and stared at the cracks in the roof, shafts of sun breaking through here and there.

  Chance should’ve won this last fight, Joe said as he leaned down and brushed some straw from his pant leg.

  You don’t know near enough about dogs to have an opinion, Billy said. How much did I turn on the fight?

  A hundred and fifty easy, said Joe. A lot bet on Chance.

  People try their luck any which way, Billy said. Take Eddy, for instance. He was just here and when he left he had a cop on his tail.

  Joe leaned his rifle against the table and smoothed back the thin hair over his ears. There was a smug grin on his face and for a moment Billy felt like hitting him.

  He turned away and started counting the money in the cash box. He was tired of Joe and tired of the Starks too. He folded a wad of bills into his pocket, leaving a few dollars and coins for Joe to use making change. Right then, all he wanted to do was run his fights and make a living.

  He handed the box to Joe and elbowed his way to the gate, a few frantic swallows veering in the air above him. Lucky was sitting on his haunches on the far side of the pit, Rebel’s neck chain in a tight grip. The stands were full again now and there were still people coming in from the field. Billy looked at Tom’s girl on the far side. She all eager, standing there on her apple box, head and shoulders above the men around her. People in the stands were talking and drinking beer as they waited for the match to begin, some younger men on the top tier laughing too loud, an older guy in front of them turning around and hollering at them to take it easy. Let’s have some respect, he said. There was something about watching a schooler getting maimed that seemed to get certain people too excited. Beyond the crowd, he saw Carl heading toward the ring, his schooler held close to his side on a short rope lead.

  The crowd quieted as Carl crossed through the beaten straw, the wind shifting around the barn as it found its way through boards and shakes. Dust swirled in the random beams of broken light. Carl led his dog up to the gate.

  Billy saw Tom walking around the outside of the crowd, looking for a way to get closer to his girl, but there were too many people. He watched him circle back to where the betting table was.

  Tom knew Billy didn’t like people standing near the betting table during a match, even though that’s where the liquor and beer were sold, but a few men had crowded around to see this last fight and, Joe, who might have said something, was in front of the table, not seeming to care one way or another. Tom could see Billy glancing over in their direction, looking surly, but he had his hands full and wasn’t about to do anything. Tom blinked, his eyes sore, the headache he’d had mostly gone, the last of his fever a faint shadow between him and the world. His hand throbbed.

  The crowd’s muttering turned to shouts. Marilyn was standing up on her apple box on the other side of the pit, crowded round by men, her hand on the shoulder of some thin guy, balancing herself there, everyone caught up in the excitement.

  He’d never liked the dog fights, yet he was somehow drawn to them each year, the violence a thing he’d always known lived in both dogs and men. Dogs fought dogs, sometimes to the death. That was bad enough. But when Billy killed a dog after it had been savaged in the ring, he had a look in his eyes. Tom had seen it in others, the doing of an ordinary task. It wasn’t triumph and it wasn’t sorrow, no matter what they might say afterward.

  You could think you knew a man, and know nothing about him, because men lied about blood, especially when it came to killing men. And it wasn’t killing like a hunter does, the moving downwind from prey. He’d hunted all his life, almost always alone, though when he was young he’d hunted sometimes with Father, but shooting a deer at dawn up by Cheater Creek wasn’t the same as shooting a wounded animal in the pit. It wasn’t killing for food or for a prize, a ten-point buck, or the bear they’d hunted one autumn, the one who broke a heifer’s neck on a neighbouring farm with a single blow and was brought down at last by Father in the fall of ’49. There was some justice in the taking of the bear, just as there was a kind of plea sure in taking a prize buck. The pit was different. Billy was like the hangman Eddy had told him about when he came back from Boyco. He accepted killing a dog as a job to do, a thing to be done, what he was good at, as a carpenter with his level, or a mason with his chisel.

  Lucky Johnson was in the ring across from the gate, holding his dog close, the animal straining against the choke chain, cropped ears pricked forward. The young pit bull was thick through the shoulders and chest, lean-muscled, and was gazing through the open gate at Carl and the schooler as they came up. Billy nodded at Carl, and stepped through the gate with the dog Carl had shown Tom when they were down at the kennels earlier. Billy held the gate partly open so Carl could get back out once the fight began. As soon as the dog saw the pit bull, it surged up on its hind legs, Carl holding tight to its leash. Tom pushed sideways between a couple of men so he could see into the pit better, the two dogs stretching at each other, teeth bared, slavering as Carl and Lucky yarded on their tethers, holding the dogs apart, the men around the ring telling Billy to give the word and let the dogs go.

  Seize him! Lucky cried as he yanked at his pit bull. You seize him! He urged Rebel to the limits of his chain, the pit bull raging.

  You take him! Carl yelled at his dog. The schooler turned and bit at the rope lead, Carl slapping it across the side of its head, loosing the rope and then pulling it short again, the dog maddened even further by the noise of the crowd and the snarling pit bull a few feet away.

  The wind had come up stronger and the eaves and rafters, timbers and struts, whistled above Tom. He looked out through the barn doors and saw a dark curtain of rain on the far side of the valley. The swallows, knowing the wind, and the rain on its heels, swept into the barn and criss-crossed the air above the pit as the dogs, frenzied now, jerked to the limits of their tethers. Billy raised his hand, Lucky and Carl freeing the dogs from their collars at the moment he cried out, Let Go! The dogs leapt toward each other, and Lucky clambered out over the pit wall, people staggering back to give him room as Carl slipped out through the gate, Billy closing it quickly behind him.

  The dogs looked like something sprung whole from the earth, the two animals reaching through space for each other, as if eager for blessed release. A gust of wind whirled in the pit, straw glinting in broken spears, tufts of dog hair, ripped bits of rug flicking up from the dogs’ claws, the hands of men and women moving around the wooden wall as if in benediction, cigarettes burning, bottles clinking, and among all this Marilyn crying out, her voice lost in the din.

  Behind Tom’s eyes, the dogs hung in the air in their first wild leap, then the maul and bite, the growl and thrust, as they heaved at each other to gain some kind of hold. He saw the tip of Rebel’s left incisor, a stained green line running down to the gum, the dog’s head high as if seeking a throat to grip. Its hackles were raised up, startled there in a crest, its paw touching Rebel’s paw perfectly, the other paw pressed forward, almost but not quite on the pit bull’s shoulder. Rebel’s teeth were huge, pricks of light reflected from the scissoring line of peaks that were the cutting molars. The blunt head was turned slightly to the side, searching for a neck hold that was there and wasn’t. The back legs of the dogs held braced to the torn ru
g, their bites coming and not coming, the yelling of the men in the stands, some who were on their feet now, the cries of the women, the dogs quick and savage.

  And then Tom saw Rebel feint, chesting Carl’s dog, who shouldered off and rounded the wall of the pit, snapping at the other dog who replied in kind, the two of them set and rearing again, neither getting a solid hold. Rebel lifted with a thrust of his back legs, tail stretched stiff, and Carl’s dog went under the pit bull’s maw, taking the front paw deep in his teeth. He wrenched down as a press does on metal. Rebel was locked hard to the back of the schooler’s neck, his jaws closed on the loose hide, shaking his head viciously until Carl’s dog let go, twisted, and bit up into Rebel’s throat, finding purchase there in the tendons and veins. Rebel gave a strangled gulp, trying to pull in a deeper bite, one paw down for a brace, the leg crumpling under him, the ruined paw blunting at the dark carpet.

  The crowd stopped shouting when the pit bull faltered. Marilyn stood with a small fist raised up and clenched, her mouth open, soundless. It seemed to him as if the men around her were there only to hold her up, the skinny guy on one side bent forward, Marilyn’s hand gripping his shirt at the shoulder, and on the other side a man standing tall, his chest heaving. Tom looked down the wall and saw Art Gillespie push his way back through the crowd and start walking away, Mike Stuttle going with him, his arm across Art’s shoulders.

  Lucky urged his dog on as if somehow Rebel might yet attack in spite of his crushed paw. Carl’s dog let go of Rebel’s neck and the pit bull sat back on his haunches, the muscles along his flanks quivering, a thin spray of bright blood rising from a cut in his throat.

  Lucky cried at his dog one last time: You seize him!

  Rebel cringed, looking up at his owner as a pup might who had been struck. He gave a choked bark, and the schooler, coppery hackles up, heaved at his throat again, biting hard, shaking the other dog, the pit bull trying to roll and show his belly, his head held up by the schooler’s jaws even as he tried to twist his haunches down. Lucky, his dog finished, climbed back over the wall, dropping beside his dog and trying to wrap a choke chain around Rebel’s neck. He yelled at Billy to get in there and pull the schooler off. As he shouted, he kicked the schooler in the ribs, the dog not releasing his grip on Rebel’s throat. Billy opened the gate, the .22 loose in his hand, Carl trying to get past him, but Billy put his arm out and stopped him.

  Shoot that fucking dog! yelled Lucky as he yarded on the choke chain, Rebel freed from the other’s grip. The schooler, confused, settled to the carpet, unsure of what it was to do, then looked up at the crowd and whined. Marilyn stepped up on the wall then and jumped into the pit. Tom, amazed, tried to push through the men who’d moved in front of him, but they shouldered him back. Billy moved into the ring, Carl’s dog backing up to the wall. Billy turned to Lucky, who was squatting beside his injured dog. Get Rebel the hell out of here, Billy said. I don’t want that dog over there any madder than it already is. Lucky put his arms under Rebel, lifted him up, and carried him hurriedly from the pit.

  The barn was suddenly quiet.

  For chrissake, get that girl out of there! someone shouted.

  Tom jammed himself between the men and started to climb up onto the table, but a man pulled him back down, telling him to get the hell out of the way, the two of them struggling there for a moment and Tom breaking free.

  Billy lifted his gun.

  Don’t you dare hurt that dog! Marilyn screamed.

  Billy hesitated and then Tom saw Joe in front of him raise his own rifle, pointing it into the ring. Tom pulled himself across the table, then fumbled in his pocket for his clasp knife, taking the edge of the blade in his teeth and opening it. He moved close behind Joe, laying the blade across Joe’s throat, saying: Put the fucking rifle down, Joe. That’s Marilyn in there.

  That girl’s going to get hurt! Carl cried, pushing against Billy who was still blocking the gate.

  Carl! Tom shouted. Don’t go in there. That dog could attack her.

  People turned to look at him.

  You cocksucker, Stark, Joe said, turning under the knife, the razor edge of the blade scoring a thin, red line from his throat to the back of his neck. He stood there then, facing Tom, and, letting his breath out slowly, he placed the rifle on the table, and took a step to the side.

  Move away, said Tom.

  Joe backed to the pit wall, watching as Tom put the knife down and picked up the rifle, aiming it at Joe’s chest, the rifle balanced there in one hand, his elbow pressing the stock against his ribs. Tom kept the rifle trained on Joe, wanting him to make some kind of move so he could have it over and done with. Years of Joe’s misery, now some old man dead, and his brother’s life on the line.

  You bugger! Marilyn screamed at the back of Joe’s head. You tried to shoot this dog. Marilyn turned toward the schooler, its growl lowered to a rumble now. She held her arm out, her hand dangling loosely from her wrist.

  Tom kept the rifle on Joe, watching Marilyn, knowing the dog would bite her if someone made the wrong move.

  It’s just a dog, said a man behind Tom. That’s all it is.

  The dog settled to the floor, and Marilyn got down on her knees. The men around the wall leaned forward, not moving, the people in the tiers standing, waiting to see what would happen next. Everyone was silent.

  The dog chopped its teeth twice and Billy began to move slowly toward Marilyn. When she held her fingers directly under its nose, he stopped dead. The dog sniffed at them, a single canine tooth clinging to its lip, the nostrils flared. A long moment went by as she grazed her fingers over the muzzle, then across the wounds on the side of the dog’s head, passing lightly back to a torn ear, stroking the fox ruffs of hair. Tom watched, transfixed, as she shuffled gradually forward on her knees, bringing herself right beside the dog.

  Then Carl came through the gate, going around Billy, and crossing the pit. He crouched beside Marilyn and said something to her that Tom couldn’t hear. Marilyn stood and Carl reached down and put a collar around the dog’s neck, taking the rope lead in his hand. He pulled at the lead gently, and the schooler stood up, its legs shaking.

  Marilyn looked over at Tom as if seeing him for the first time, and he lowered the rifle.

  Carl kept the lead short as he left the pit, the dog holding close as it padded beside him out the gate toward the doors of the barn. Billy stepped out of the ring and came around the pit over to them. Tom handed him the rifle.

  Cold gusts of wind blasted through the walls, the roof beginning to rattle from the first heavy drops of rain. Billy hefted the Winchester lightly in his hand, then reversed it, holding it out stock-first, Joe taking it from him with a half-smile, tiny blood beads ringing his throat.

  Some fucking families leave nothing behind them but trash, Joe said.

  Billy gave Joe a long, slow look. This’s over, Joe. You and your games. Get your truck and go.

  Joe didn’t say a word. He cradled the rifle across his arm and walked away, the wind buffeting him so that he staggered a moment as he neared the barn doors, his head down as he went out into the storm.

  Fucking DP immigrant, Billy said under his breath, then glanced at Tom.

  Tom looked away and walked to the pit. He swung himself up and over, and went to Marilyn.

  The rain struck the walls, water pouring in crystal streams through the holes in the roof, the doors obscured, gone in the deluge. Men and women stumbled from the stands and out of the barn, seeming to swim away, disappearing into their own shouts and cries, fleeing through the water as if they’d been turned into fish with legs, scrambling back into an original element they’d long forgotten, drowning in the air as they ran toward their trucks. The rain had ruptured the hanging dust, turning it to mud in the air, a browned and beaten stew that smeared the bodies of children, pants and boots, shirts and jackets, men and women yelling at each other, dogs seeming to float on the earth, following their chains to whatever cage they were being led to in their cringes, bar
ks, and howls.

  Tom led Marilyn from the pit, her hanging on to his arm as they walked from the barn. All Tom could see were the backs of people bent over as they ran past them, each man and woman gone into what was neither above nor below, somewhere out in the downpour cars and trucks starting, windshield wipers beating time to curses, the rain beginning to slow suddenly, turning into a steady, drumming fall.

  Tom and Marilyn headed toward Carl’s, where his truck was parked. Carl came out from behind the house, the dog beside him, and called Marilyn over, handing her the lead. Carl looked at Tom who was standing by the side of the truck, nodding his head at what Tom couldn’t find the words to say.

  Billy turned at the doors and looked back into the barn, which was empty now, but for a few swallows weaving in and out of the now frail threads of water wavering down from the roof.

  Who cares about Joe anyway? he thought. Who cares about any of them? Even Eddy Stark, running around the back roads with a cop on his tail. There wasn’t anything he could do about that. He walked over to his truck and looked in the window at Badger. The dog raised his head and when Billy made no move to open the door, Badger lowered it again to his paws.

  He’d have to go find Carl and Art so they could take the pit apart and load it up. He went around the back of the truck and dropped the tailgate, taking out the tarp he used to cover the pit shells. He shook the canvas out, bits of wet straw falling to the ground. When he looked up, he saw Tom Stark’s truck crossing the field, moving away, vanishing in the rain, as it headed toward the clay-slick road.