Dog Gone (15 page)

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

“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!”

“That blood is from a cut.” I point. “See. On his muzzle.”

“That blood isn't from any cut, Dill.” Cub shakes his head as if he's been given the worst news ever. “His paws are all filthy, too. Like he's dug out of some place.” Cub pulls the collar of his T-shirt up and over his mouth and nose. “And he stinks again.”

Cub barely spits this out when the raw stench hits my nose like a freight train. As if this isn't bad enough, he points at more dried blood crusted around a wide, wet gash across Dead End's shoulder. The wound glistens red and meaty under a dirty crust.

Cub pulls back, and makes a strangled sound through the T-shirt. “Dead End is the dog that Mr. Jonas clipped when he took aim at the pack going after his sheep.”

Before I can argue, Dead End slides on his belly, farther out from under the tree. I inch closer to him, lean forward, offer him my hand. He licks my palm and gives happy dog grunts, his tail thumping. Blood or no blood, I want to hug and kiss this crazy pooch, smother him in pets and tell him that I understand his need to run from what has happened. “You're a good dog trying to deal with a whole lot of hurt,” I tell him, looking into his face, understanding.

Cub snorts. “Good dogs don't chase steer, kill groundhogs, and…” He stops when I shoot him my coldest glare.

“Never mind,” I growl. “Let's get him home.”

Cub kicks at the ground. “How? We can't go past the stable with him.”

“We'll go through the woods, follow the old, abandoned train tracks. It'll take forever, but at least no one will see us.”

“We need a collar and a leash.” Cub whips off his old belt with the extra holes punched in it. By some miracle, his baggy, handed-down shorts don't drop to his ankles as he fastens the belt about Dead End's neck in a makeshift collar. The spare length becomes a short leash.

Dead End's tail stops wagging. He sneezes.

*   *   *

The next morning, early, the hinges of the barn door creak when Cub pulls the thing closed behind him, leaving Dead End inside. Cleaned up and curled into a doughnut on his blanket, with the new bone beside him, the pooch has just finished licking his wounds and is digesting his breakfast along with his favorite cookies—cranberry-raisin—which I'd baked for him, using Mom's recipe. “We've got to keep him out here until I can figure out how to explain his wounds.” My voice shakes as I picture Mom petting Socrates and Plato. She always went out of her way to find them when she came to the stable to watch my riding lessons. She'd bring those goats handfuls of grain or garden vegetables donated by Cub.

Cub fusses with twine and wire, twisting and knotting it over the handle as if the door needs to hold closed against a herd of stampeding elephants. “Dill, yesterday Plato was attacked by a dog at the same time that Dead End was at the stable. Think about that.”

In no mood to consider this for even half a minute, I head for the ranch.

Once he's secured the door closed, Cub scuffs up behind me. “Even if he didn't attack Plato, your dog's in plenty of trouble.”

We pass Mom's garden, the weeds growing tall and strong without G.D.'s daily maintenance. “I've got to tell G.D. that Dead End's back and…” The ring of the kitchen telephone, as startling as a fire alarm, keeps me from saying anymore. I bolt. Cub follows, closer than my shadow.

“Hello,” I say, breathless from lunging across the kitchen to snatch the telephone receiver from the wall. At the same time, my gaze finds G.D.'s bedroom door at the end of the hall, sealed closed because he is sleeping late again, which makes my chest heavy.

Cub watches me without blinking.

“Dill, I'm glad you're there,” the voice on the phone says.

Cub pushes my shoulder. “Who is it?”

I cover the receiver with my palm. “Ms. Hunter.” Cub's eyes go wide. I slide my hand off the telephone. “How's Plato?”

Ms. Hunter lets out a deep breath. “Stitched up. Dr. Kitt thinks he'll be fine.” She sounds relieved. “Listen, Dill, are you okay? Jerry said that you and Cub left yesterday afternoon even though he'd told you to watch for the dogs that attacked Plato. That's not like you. I know we have a riding lesson later, but I wanted to talk to you before you got busy with Crossfire and your stable duties.”

Cub pushes me again. “What's she sayin'?”

I wave at him to hush.

“And you left Crossfire's bridle out after your riding lesson. You didn't clean the trailer, either. You've never turned your back on stable rules and instructions before.” She sighs again. “You're not yourself, Dill. I'm worried about you. I know you're going through a very tough time, but…”

“I'm fine,” I spit out to stop her from going on. But I feel bad right off. How can I lie to Ms. Hunter?

After a minute of silence that feels more like a year, she sighs. “If there is anything that I can do, Dill,” she says in a softer tone, “I hope that you'll come to me.”

“Thanks. I'll be better about instructions and…” All at once, the image of Miss Velvet tied to the rope lines in the middle of an aisle where I'd left her yesterday pops into my head, and makes me choke on the rest of my sentence. Ms. Hunter must know that someone broke one of her most important stable rules, and left a horse out of its stall and unattended. “That mess with Plato shook me up,” I throw out.