Dog Gone (13 page)

Ms. Hunter sighs as she heads toward the gate. “Put it to sleep.”

No
.
Please, no!

“Let's call it quits for today, Dill. Your mind isn't on riding.”

“Sorry,” I manage to get out, hoping she doesn't connect my off day with my recent lack of enthusiasm for training and showing. I don't want her to know that I've been losing the love, the energy for competition. Would she still let me ride Crossfire if my heart wasn't in it?

She glances over her shoulder, throwing me a reassuring smile. “We all have off days. Crossfire still got a good workout, even if you didn't.” But when she pauses at the gate, her smile evaporates. “But, Dill?” She focuses on my eyes, and hesitates as if wrestling with what she wants to tell me, which isn't her natural way. “Are you okay? Is there anything you want to share with me? I worry about you. I'm concerned with how you are coping with…”

“I'm great,” I say, quick enough to cut her off and loud enough for the entire stable to hear. “Just thinking about how to best take that combination of jumps we've been working on,” I add, even though I know what she's really asking about.

Ms. Hunter keeps studying me. “Dill, I'm talking about how you're coping with…”

“Everything is fine,” I snap. And then I force a quick smile, hoping Ms. Hunter doesn't hear the bite in my words.

“Okay. But know that I'm here if you ever need me.” She heads back to the barn. “You know the rules. Walk Crossfire out before you put him back into his stall.”

But I've got to find Cub fast,
I want to scream. Has he heard that Mr. Kryer has trapped a yellow dog? I let the reins slide through my fingers as Ms. Hunter disappears into the stable. But instead of relaxing, Crossfire tenses. He pricks his ears and turns his head toward the woods.

I run my hand over his neck, head to shoulders. “What do you hear?” I whisper, not taking his reaction too seriously. This horse spooks easy, always has. “You hear another horse?” But no horses are out on the trails this hot summer afternoon.

Crossfire turns one ear back to my voice, but only for a second before leaves rustle near the path leading into the woods. Twigs snap.

Saddle leather creaks as I swing my leg over Crossfire's back and slide to a soft thud, landing on my feet. Clutching the reins, I lead Crossfire out the gate opening. But when I turn to go to the woods, he stiffens, throws his head up, showing the whites of his eyes, refusing to move in that direction. “Okay, okay,” I tell him in my most soothing voice. Then I lead him back to the barn, even though my heart is thumping
Get to those trees! Get to those trees!

Inside the stable, Crossfire's hooves clip-clop quicker than they should because I can hardly stop myself from breaking into a run.

“Who set your jeans on fire, Dill?” Cub, sitting on stacked straw bales outside Crossfire's stall, spits crumbs, his cheeks bulging with one of the peach muffins that I baked this morning. His shoulders are slouched. Misery with Blackie's name on it pulls on his face. “Better be careful. You know Mr. Smoothers lives to catch people breaking stable rules.”

“Don't take another bite of that muffin!” I about jump on Cub. Crossfire jerks his head up again, startled.

Cub turns the half-eaten muffin up and over, studying it. “Looks all right to me.”

“There's something in the woods, near the path—an animal. Maybe it's—” My voice cracks through my strained whisper. “Save the muffin to give to him.”

“Whatever you heard out there, it's not Dead End, Dill.” Cub's face tips down as he shakes his head slow. “I've been waiting here tryin' to figure out the best way to tell you that Mr. Kryer caught a dog. A blond husky mix.”

“Yeah, I heard. But that dog isn't our dog.”

“There you go being the Queen of Denial again.”

“He loves my baking. We'll use that muffin you're chewing on to lure him out from the trees.” I barely get this out before Crossfire pulls me into his stall. I unbuckle the girth, and haul the saddle off his back.

Cub comes to the doorway. “Dill, you need to face facts. Mr. Kryer has got your dog. I know your granddad is sick, but you got to tell him. He'd want to know.”

I about throw the saddle, and then my helmet, at him. “Dead End is out there.” I point in the general direction of the woods. “I know it.” I unfasten the bridle so fast that my fingers almost tangle. Then I fling the thing onto a straw bale even though putting equipment away and brushing down a horse after riding are strict stable requirements. “He loves people. It makes sense that he'd come here. Let's go. We got to get him back to the ranch, keep him inside until the killings stop and…”

“Hush, Dill!” Cub waves his hands to shush me, almost flinging the remains of the muffin at my head. “Skeeter is here with his mother. Haven't you heard them? She's been shakin' the walls with all her bellowin'. And he's been hollerin' at poor Miss Velvet.” Cub twists his head to one side and spits the way his brothers do when they're disgusted, as long as their mother isn't around. “Makes me sick the way he treats his horse.” He spits again. If he keeps at this spewing, he'll dry up for sure.

“Forget about Skeeter and come with me.” I head back toward the barn door. “And bring what's left of that muffin.”

*   *   *

When we get close to the trail in the woods behind the barn, leaves crackle and twigs snap. Something deep enough into the trees to keep us from seeing it swishes under brush and dried-out leaves. I picture Dead End's windshield-wiper tail sweeping the ground.

“It's Dead End. I know it.” I have to stop myself from jumping up and down and screaming with more joy than I've felt in months.

“Dill, there's nothin' but squirrels in there.”

“Squirrels? Yeah, maybe if they're fifty pounds each,” I snap.

Cub rolls his eyes, scratches his buzzed head, and grunts in a way that sounds like frustration. “If that's Dead End in there, then what dog did Mr. Kryer trap?”

I don't bother saying
who cares
. I start toward the trees, at least until Cub stops me by grabbing my arm as if my staying put is a matter of life or death. “Hold up.” He drops into a squat, squinting and leaning toward the scrappy brambles. “If your dog is in there and he's not coming out to us, there's a reason why.”

“Of course there's a reason,” I spit, getting plenty impatient. “He feels bad for killing that groundhog and then running off. He knows that was wrong.”

Cub inches closer to the trees. “Yeah well, if he's feelin' that guilty, we've got to be real gentle with him or he'll bolt again.” Cub opens his hand, pushes his open palm with the mashed muffin on it toward the shadowy woods. “Is that you, boy? Come on out, let Dill and I see you. We miss you, even if you do have groundhog breath.”

“Get closer,” I whisper. “See if you can get an eyeful of him.”

“Remember, he's got no collar to grab hold of.”

I hold my breath and watch Cub push the mangled muffin into the shadows.

“Come here, Dead End. Come on, good dog,” I say in my sweetest coaxing tone, even though my insides are tense enough to snap.

Cub extends his arm as far as he can. “If we had a groundhog sandwich,” he grunts, “we could get that dog to come to us from anywhere.”

If we hadn't been occupied, I'd have clobbered Cub for that.

But then leaves and twigs crackle and crunch as whatever is in the woods moves away from us.

“Cub,” I squeak, “do something. He's getting away.”

“Squirrels,” Cub mutters again. But then he sighs. “If Dead End is here, maybe it's best to let him go.” He sounds too calm, like his minister father when the man offers up advice you don't want but need to take, like foul-tasting medicine. “Plato and Socrates are outside. Dead End could go after them.”

I jerk as if Cub has slapped me, then stand, and plant my hands hard on my hips. “Have you been sniffing the hoof dressing? How could you say something that ugly about my dog?” About Mom's dog.

“Dill,” Cub says in that steel-hard way that announces he's about had enough. “I know you don't want to hear this, but it's about time you face facts.” He stares right into my eyes then, giving me his
I will have my say
look.

I know better than to mess with him when he gets like this.

“You're too busy forcing things to be the way you want them to be to see what's real. You need to accept Dead End for the dog he is, not the dog you want him to be.”

“He
is
a good dog,” I squeak, my gusto gone. I don't sound even close to convinced anymore.

“Donny's right,” Cub adds. “You are the Queen of Denial.”

I turn and stomp off, too tired to fight about this.

“You've got the only husky dog around,” Cub keeps on, coming after me. “If you really believe he's innocent, why do you keep throwing out lies?”

I don't answer, can't answer as we move along the side of the barn.

“How can you not even consider the possibility of your dog being a sheep killer when all the evidence is there, bold as red paint on a white wall?”

“A-ha!” Skeeter leaps out at us from a side entrance, waving his stupid, silver-handled crop like he is going to chop off our heads with it. “CAUGHT you! Knew I would! I knew you had something to do with the dog pack. Knew it!” Skeeter stabs the tip of his crop into my shoulder.

I smack the whip away. “You haven't
caught
us at anything,
Skeeter
.”

“Oh yes, I have.” He grins big, gloating. “The dog Mr. Kryer caught is your dog, isn't it, Dill?”

“No, it's not, Skeeter,” Cub says, puffing himself, defending me in a shaky way that isn't the usual, confident Cub. “That dog Bob Kryer has got is a new dog in town—a big, yellow cuss of a mutt. Dill's dog has been at her house during all the sheep killings.”

Skeeter's eyes shrink. “Don't give me that. I heard you call Dill's dog a sheep killer.”

Words don't come to me. My heart beats a panicked
Say something! Say something!
Cub looks stunned, cornered and red-faced.

Skeeter almost glows with his triumph. The Mosquito. “Wait until Ms. Hunter and Sheriff Hawks hear this.” The thin crease of Skeeter's mouth curls up at the corners in the ugliest grin I've ever seen. “No more free riding lessons for Dill.” He spits out my name as if it's moldy cheese in his mouth. “No more being Ms. Hunter's favorite because she feels sorry for you. Because your mother…”

With my fists clenched, I lunge at him before he can finish. “You sack of…”

“Dill! No!” Cub grabs my arm, holds me back.

“You both have to treat me better now,” Skeeter says. “You have to include me in whatever you're up to. We'll hang out. Because only the best of pals keep their secrets from other people, right?”

“Pal around with you? After all the cra—” Cub stops himself. “After all the
stuff
you've put us through?” Cub's grip strangles my arm. “That'll be the day,
Skeeter,
” he practically hisses, as slow and as mean as Cub can get.

Skeeter's grin disappears. “Miss Velvet needs her stall mucked out.”

“Then go muck,” I snap, still itching to pound him for what he almost said.

“No, beef-brain.
You're
going to do it.” Skeeter pokes the crop tip at me again. “Cub cleans out stalls for you. That's why you'll shovel out my horse's stall for me. Because that's what friends do for each other and I want people to see that we're
friends
now.”

Cub narrows his eyes at Skeeter. “There'll be snow-skiing in hell before that happens.”

Cub's curse floors me, cools my fury. I stand stunned. It was bad enough that he almost said
crap
. Even
thinking
a swear word gets a Bayer boy's mouth washed out with the slimy side of a soap bar.

Skeeter points the crop at Cub, then me. “Muck out Miss Velvet's stall or I'll tell Ms. Hunter, Sheriff Hawks, and anyone who'll listen about you owning a sheep-killing dog.”

Every inch of my body wants to pound Skeeter senseless. But if I even breathe on him, he'll open his big mouth, and tell Ms. Hunter and Sheriff Hawks about Dead End. Everything Skeeter has seen and heard will get back to Lyon. And G.D.

“Fine. I'll deal with your stupid stall,” I snarl. “And then I'll take the manure and shove it…”

“Dill!” Cub shoots me a warning look.

“Also, tell Ms. Hunter that you're withdrawing from the regional show.” Skeeter's malicious grin snakes across his face again.

“What?” I can't have heard him right.

“You're pushing your stinkin' luck,” Cub tells Skeeter.

He lifts his chin, throws his shoulders back, full of himself. “Sheriff Hawks asked me to help track down the pack dogs. I could remind him that you have a husky-type dog, Dill. I could tell him how that dog has been missing. How Cub talked about you lying.” Skeeter struts back into the stable. “Withdraw from that horse show, Dill, or I
will
tell him. I'll turn your mutt in.”

When he giggles, I lunge at him. Luckily, Cub grabs my arm again and points inside the barn where Stubs, low to the ground, begins stalking Skeeter. Any minute, the big barn cat will pounce and send him into a spinning fit.

“We'd better get out of here,” Cub says, sounding more down and out than I've ever heard him. “Before one of us does something to that Mosquito that will get us into even deeper trouble than we're already in.”

CHAPTER 11

ATTACKED

The next morning, Cub finds me in the kitchen, measuring flour, sugar, and blueberries using Mom's dented and scratched metal measuring cups. As I dump the ingredients into the ceramic bowls that she's had since forever, I think again about how using her cooking stuff brings her back into the kitchen. Sort of. But not enough, not the way I need her to be—within reach and listening, helping me work out my problems.