“Banjo was a good dog, wasn’t he?” Tyrell said.
“Still is.”
“Yeah. With a good home.”
“I miss him, Tyrell.”
“You want to try to get him back?”
Danny didn’t answer right away. Did he? Of course he did. But what he wanted didn’t matter. Only Banjo mattered. And after what they’d done to him…
“No,” Danny said softly.
“Yeah…He’d probably never trust us again.”
Danny looked back toward the ridge. He whistled, and Ruby ran over, tripping through the long grass. Danny handed the shovel to Tyrell, picked her up, and tucked her under his arm. “You’re a good dog, too.”
Ruby panted. Her ears perked.
“Not the same,” Tyrell said. “But just as good.”
Danny hugged Ruby. “Just as good.”
When they got to the house, they went in and turned on every light. That’s what they did when Dad was on the road. “What’s for dinner?” Danny asked.
“Beans.”
“From a can?”
“What do you think?”
Danny got the plates.
They ate, did their chores, fed Ruby, and went to bed.
* * *
• • •
In the morning, they got up, ate leftover beans, and went out to do it all over again.
After lunch, Danny called Meg while Tyrell cleaned up.
“Hey,” she said.
“How’s Amigo?”
“Getting gentler by the day.”
Danny closed his eyes, picturing her. “You got a minute? I want to tell you a story.”
“What’s it about?”
“Banjo…the part you don’t know.”
“Is it better than the part I do know?”
“The guy we got him from said he was once wild. He was nervous around people and skittish.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Like Amigo,” Meg said.
“Yeah.”
More silence.
“And you…had to earn his trust?”
“It didn’t take as long as Amigo will, but yeah.”
“Is that the whole story?”
“Almost.”
She laughed. “So what’s the rest of it?”
“I’ll tell you. But first…well…do you…I mean…after everything that’s happened, do you think you can learn to…to trust me?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“On how long it takes you to come over so I can say yes.”
Danny covered the phone with his hand. “Tyrell!”
Epilogue
TWO WEEKS AFTER THE MADRAS RODEO
At nine o’clock Saturday morning, Danny, Tyrell, and Dad were in the yard washing the two trucks when Mr. Brodie and his boys drove up. They parked, let the dust settle, and got out.
Tyrell tossed his sponge into a bucket. “Right on time.”
Dad turned off the water.
Mr. Brodie had called the night before, but all Dad told Danny and Tyrell was that he and his boys wanted to come over. Billy and Ben had some atoning to do.
Danny and Tyrell had to look that word up. “It means to make things right, or to apologize.”
Danny thought, Too late for that.
“There’s something else,” Dad said. “It seems we have Harmon’s rifle. You boys know anything about that?”
They told him how they got it and why they kept it.
Dad considered their story, somber. Then he shook his head and turned away. But they both saw the grin he tried to hide.
“Morning, Harmon,” Dad said. He nodded to Billy and Ben. “Boys.”
Billy and Ben dipped their heads but didn’t look at any of them.
Mr. Brodie looked up at the blue high desert sky. “Too nice a morning for something like this, but it’s got to be done.” He turned to Danny. “First off, Danny, I owe you an apology for going after your dog. You were right all along, and I…well…I went along believing in a lie.”
He turned to Billy and Ben. Looked at them, as if inspecting a flat tire. “They tried to concoct a story about how they lost the rifle. I’m not so old I can’t see through a tall one. Now I know that they went out to wander around in the night with the rifle. They made a little campfire and saw your dog.”
Mr. Brodie looked at Billy.
“Billy took a shot, just to scare it.” He paused, looked down, and quietly added, “I’m glad the dog survived.”
Danny felt his honest regret. “Me too, Mr. Brodie,” he said, almost in a whisper.
“We’ve settled with it, Harmon,” Dad said. “Banjo’s got a new home with good people, and you were kind enough to give Danny the pup. I think we can all just let this go and start again.”
“Thank you.”
Danny eyed Billy, not feeling generous about letting him off the hook. Not without the whole story coming out.
But Ben looked sorry.
Tyrell stood frowning, arms crossed.
Dad lifted his chin to Danny. “Run in and get Harmon his rifle.”
“Yes, sir.”
It stood in the back corner of the closet, alongside their grandfather’s Winchester. Danny pulled it out and looked up at the two beer bottles on the shelf above the coat rack. He started to reach for them but stopped and stared at them. He pursed his lips and closed the closet door.
Mr. Brodie took the rifle, checked the safety, and tucked it under his arm, barrel down. “The boys have something to say.”
Mr. Brodie waited, staring at the dirt around his boots as if too disappointed or embarrassed to look at his own sons.
Dad waited.
Danny and Tyrell waited.
When Billy and Ben failed to speak, Mr. Brodie looked up.
Waiting.
Ben shifted from one foot to the other. “Uh…we, um…we…”
He averted his eyes.
Billy glowered at Danny. “Sorry we shot at your dog. Sorry you lost it. Sorry we caused you trouble.”
Silence.
Ben found his nerve. “Now we gotta work for you. Dad says ten hours.”
More silence.
“Well,” Dad said. “Been thinking about that since Harmon came up with the idea last night. I think I have just the thing for you boys, and it may take all ten of those hours.”
Danny looked at Tyrell.
Tyrell shrugged. Who knows?
Dad pointed to the pasture. “See that stump out there?”
* * *
• • •
Mr. Brodie drove off, leaving Billy and Ben to the stump.
Danny and Tyrell went up to Tyrell’s upstairs bedroom, watching out the window, trying to stifle the laughs bursting up in both of them.
“Look…I can’t believe they don’t see him,” Tyrell said.
“They will.”
Billy and Ben had no idea that Ricky’s crazy steer was pawing the dirt, not five feet behind them.
Danny had to wipe tears away to see. “It’s coming, it’s going to snort.”
Ben was the first to turn around, and when he did, people all the way over to Bend could hear his scream.
Billy dropped his pick and staggered backward. When he saw the steer, he leaped clear out of the stump hole.
The second snort sent them sprinting for the fence.
The steer bolted in the opposite direction.
Danny and Tyrell laughed so hard and so loud that Billy and Ben looked toward the house.
“Stop, stop,” Danny howled. “They’ll hear us.”
But they couldn’t stop cracking up.
* * *
• • •
The Brodie boy
s dug ten hours, but they never did get that stump out.
But Danny and Tyrell did, shouting, “For Banjo!” when the roots finally broke free.
Acknowledgments
Being in the flow of writing a novel is often a thrill. Revision, especially, is a time when my world stops, and I get lost in rethinking and reworking.
And then there are the times when I have to fight myself—procrastination, laziness, distraction, imagination freeze. But I have ways to get back in the saddle, so to speak. And my favorite way back is by seeking out experts and early readers who can give me feedback.
My most sincere appreciation in the writing of Banjo goes out to friends who helped me along the way.
Tammy Sutter, for her kindness, endless support, and encouragement; Brian and Brooke Winters, bull rider and barrel racer, for keeping a sharp eye on my ranch and rodeo details; Wendy Lamb, my one-and-only-ever editor, and friend; and Dana Carey, keen-eyed, ultra-dog-loving assistant editor—thank you both for the gift of your exquisite editorial skills; and to my writing friends, Jessica Maxwell, who tells me that I’m better than I think I am, and Brian Geraths, for our many conversations on writing and the art of living well. And finally a huge thank-you to my brilliant young prepublication reviewers: Tye Barron (grade 6), Olive Cochran (grade 5), and Wyatt Sydnor (grade 5).
With gratitude also to these experts: Tom Dorrance, Cherry Hill, Buck Brannaman, Kayla Starnes, Ty Murray, Mark Rashid, Monty Roberts, Joe Camp, Susan Richards, and Clinton Anderson. Thank you.
About the Author
Graham Salisbury grew up in the Hawaiian Islands, where his family has lived since 1820. He graduated from California State University and received an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts, where he was a member of the founding faculty of the MFA program in writing for children. He is the author of twenty multiple-award-winning books, including The Hunt for the Bamboo Rat, Under the Blood-Red Sun, House of the Red Fish, Blue Skin of the Sea, Lord of the Deep, Night of the Howling Dogs, Eyes of the Emperor, and the Calvin Coconut series for younger readers. He lives in Lake Oswego, Oregon.
grahamsalisbury.com
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