Dog Gone (10 page)

Could I, should I, give Lyon another problem to carry around—a boulder with Dead End's name on it? Words stick in my throat like wads of peanut butter. “Your customers are loyal,” I finally choke out, trying to convince myself more than Lyon. “They won't go to any new store.”

Before Lyon can argue, the screen door swings open, the old hinges squealing. “Evening, Dill, Lyon.”
Sniff
. Mr. Kryer, short and thick and sturdy as a stump, steps inside, wiping a dirt-stained knuckle under his nose. “You closed, Lyon?”

“If I'm here, the store is open, Bob,” Lyon says in a strained,
my only concern is the customer
voice. The natural, relaxed tone he'd had with friends went away with Mom.

“How are you doing, Dill?” Mr. Kryer's face takes on the same dopey-eyed concern that I'm getting real sick of seeing on the adults around town.

I clear my throat. “Fine, thanks,” I answer, my words cardboard.

The man sneezes so hard that he nearly blows me across the store.

Lyon grabs a box of tissues and pushes them at Mr. Kryer. I step back, ready to dive for cover if his nose explodes again.

Lyon sticks the toothpick back between his lips and slides it to one side of his mouth. “You eat dinner? Dill made some fine chicken.”

I scowl. If Lyon gives away the dinner that I'd made for
him,
I'll be spitting mad.

“I'm sure it's great.”
Sniff
. “But I got to stop by a few more places, talk to some folks before I can head home to Mrs. Kryer's stew.” Mr. Kryer pats what could be a watermelon under his plaid, button-down shirt. “That woman puts together a mean stew.” He grins only a moment. “But I'm not here to talk about cooking. I'm here to spread the word about a big problem.” He sighs then. “This is the part I've been dreading.” He looks at Lyon. “Tell me your dog has been home safe and sound.”

“What? Sure, I guess.” Lyon glances at me. “Dead End has been home, right, Dill?”

“I wouldn't bother you with this, knowing what your family has been through,” Mr. Kryer puts in quick. “But we've got a problem with some dogs. A pack of them are running wild. They attacked one of Jim Wilson's sheep.”
Sniff.
“Killed it. And well, someone thought he saw a yellow husky type, like your dog.”

My heartbeat speeds up. I should have guessed that Mr. Kryer, our ex-mayor, would warn folks about the dogs. The man has a gift for getting people fired up over a cause. Every year, he organizes the county fair and the holiday toy drive for underprivileged kids, and manages to get folks excited about livestock and dolls.

“Sheriff Hawks is as angry as a wet hornet and has signed some of us up as assistant deputies to help him track down the bloodthirsty mutts and their irresponsible owners.” Mr. Kryer puffs himself up, looking something like a rooster with a beer belly. “I'm bringing the farmers together for shooting lessons. I got Fred Barley, who's a real good shot, lined up to teach us a thing or two about hitting targets.”

The thought of farmers shooting at dogs makes me gasp. But Lyon and Mr. Kryer ignore me as if I'm part of the woodwork.

“Sheriff Hawks has asked some of us to get the word out about the dogs.”
Sniff.
Mr. Kryer pulls a page from his back pocket. “Can you hang this in your store, Lyon?”

“Of course.” The page crinkles as he takes it, unfolds it, and then scans it.

I lean toward him, stretching my neck to see the writing. Bold, black, no-nonsense letters scream
WARNING! Dog pack seen on Wilson farm. BLACK LABRADOR, GERMAN SHEPHERD, and BLOND HUSKY seen chasing sheep. Husky killed one sheep. Call Sheriff Hawks with any information.

My heart beats hard enough to bust a rib.
Blond husky
? No wonder Mr. Kryer asked about Dead End. This page might as well be an F.B.I. ten most wanted list with Dead End's name on it. The whole town will see it if Lyon hangs the thing in his store.

Mr. Kryer grunts as he turns to the door, wiping his nose with the back of his hand again. “Hard enough making a living off of a farm these days without having to worry about people's pets attacking livestock.”

Lyon's head bobs in agreement. He places Mr. Kryer's page on the counter, then follows the farmer to the door.

“You tell Hawks that I'll do anything I can to help,” Lyon says as they move out to the parking lot. “Dogs that go after livestock should be destroyed.”

That comment freezes me. I stand stunned until a truck door slams. And then, almost without thinking, I snatch Mr. Kryer's paper with shaking hands. I stuff it into my back pocket and head for the door.

“I got to get home,” I tell Lyon as I hop onto my bike. “G.D.'s waiting.”

Lyon's expression crinkles with questions, but I take off before he can say a word.

*   *   *

Clutching Mr. Kryer's warning, I drop the bag with the rawhide bone onto Dead End's dog bed, and then shoot across the ranch to my room.

Where can I hide the warning? I drop to my belly and peer under my bed. Dust balls remind me that I'm not keeping the ranch as eat-off-the-floor clean as Mom did.

My most valued treasures are
squirreled away,
as G.D. says, under this bed. The shoe box of my favorite letters and postcards from him, sent weekly from wherever he was. Lyon's good luck silver dollar, which he gave to me to put in my pocket during horse shows. Mom's overdue library books, which I still can't bring myself to return. The silver-handled hairbrush that she'd had since she was my age. And the last of her gardenia perfume.

Less important, but still under the bed, lays the stomach-medicine-pink diary with the matching pen, still in cellophane packaging. Lyon bought this stupid thing after Mrs. Doyle told him that I need to get my feelings out about Mom, one way or another. But there's no way I'm going to spill these in ink.

I push the diary aside and wrap my fingers around the small perfume bottle—my favorite treasure these days. After pulling it out, I carefully pop off the top, releasing the bone-deep comforting scent that sings Mom.

Mom. She'd be plenty disappointed in me for not telling Lyon about Dead End running off again, and for snatching Mr. Kryer's warning. My lies are bad enough.
You know better,
I can almost hear her say.

The door to the garage opens, and then closes. Lyon's boots stomp inside. “Dill?”

After replacing the top to the perfume bottle, I shove Mr. Kryer's page into my back pocket before heading for the kitchen. “Lyon! You're home!”

His big hands juggle overstuffed folders and the bagged dinner that I'd made. “Came by to finish the chicken with you and G.D.,” he says over a toothpick. “Where is he?”

I look over my shoulder at his closed bedroom door. “Sleeping.”

Lyon glances down at the brown bag. “Guess I am a little late.” The toothpick slides to one side of his mouth as he looks at me. “By the way, did you see where I put that flyer Bob Kryer gave me?”

I shrug, wondering if this counts as another lie.

“I got to find it.” Lyon turns away from me to dump the folders onto the counter. “A dog pack is bad news. Folks need to know about it.”

This stabs. My insides clench.

Lyon drops his bagged dinner onto the counter. “Did you notice that the flyer said something about a blond husky in the pack?”

“Oh?” My voice squeaks.

“Where's Dead End?”

“Around somewhere,” I manage to get out. “Sounds like that new dog up the road, the yellow husky-shepherd mix that is running with the dog pack.” I'm not sure which feels worse, lying so easily, or knowing I'm half good at it.

“New dog?” Lyon pauses from flipping through papers, his back still turned.

“Yup,” I say, thinking
you'd know the truth if you were home more.

If Lyon wasn't all knotted up, he'd at least pick up on my shrugging and my clipped answers. He'd wonder about not having seen our dog. Lyon used to be the best at detecting my thoughts, moods, and actions. Mom called this his parent radar.

He pushes his fingers through his dark hair. “Fear of a dog pack will send the farmers to that new store for guns, traps, and poisons—all the things I don't carry at MacGregor's.” He scans the counter. “Dang. I forgot my receipts.”

“The sheriff isn't going to let people use that stuff on dogs, is he?” My voice trembles.

Lyon lumbers back to the garage. “Out-of-control animals have to be stopped, Dill.” The garage door slams shut behind him.

My hand goes to Mr. Kryer's flyer, which practically ticks like a time bomb in my pocket, reminding me that I'm not being fair to Lyon. The farmers will be more than mad if he doesn't hang this warning in his store. Other flyers are sure to be plastered like wallpaper all over town. Lyon could get more. He would, too. He cares that much about his friends and neighbors.

That's why I sidestep to the counter, and pull the paper from my pocket. As the garage door opens, I stuff the page into one of Lyon's folders, and then jump back from it.

“I got a bad feeling about these dogs,” Lyon says as his boots stamp back into the kitchen, his hands gripping the folder of receipts.

“Me, too,” I mutter.

CHAPTER 8

OLD AS DIRT

The smells of horse, hay, and grain hang in the thick, stable air. Horses snort, shift, and stamp their hooves in nearby stalls. “You're late,” I tell Cub. My hands itch to dump a pitchfork of dirty, stinking straw over his buzzed head.

Stepping into the box stall, he shifts on the untied laces of his work boots and plucks at his too-big, faded T-shirt. The Bayer family scent of bleach and fabric softener cling to his shirt and shorts, which are more wrinkled than used tissues. His mom shows her love for her family by the intense way that she does their laundry, but the woman hates ironing.

“We said we'd get the stable work done early this morning so we could go look for Dead End before my riding lesson. Remember?” Worrying about being late for my lesson makes me more cranky than usual and as tight as a pulled rubber band.

“Sorry,” Cub says. “Timmy and Jimmy, the idiot twins, locked me in the basement.” His face goes beet-purple as he stares at his work boots and kicks at hay pieces.

I dump old, wet straw into the wheelbarrow and stab the prongs of the pitchfork into more of it on the floor. “Okay, that rots, but we still need to find Dead End.” I stop, don't say
before he goes after more animals
while listening for Skeeter, Jerry Smoothers, or anyone who might overhear me. “We got to find that dog before Sheriff Hawks does.”

Socrates, one of Ms. Hunter's stable goats, clops up behind Cub and nuzzles his back pocket. When Cub doesn't pull out a garden carrot right away, Socrates plants the knobs of his would-be horns into Cub's butt and shoves him. Ms. Hunter has always said that she'd had both her goats dehorned for the safety of every rear end in the county.

“Nice hit, Socrates,” I mumble.

Cub gives me a prune-faced look. “Who spit in your cornflakes this morning, Dill?” He pulls out a carrot. Socrates grabs it and trots off, probably sensing my mood.

I yank the fork from bedding. “G.D. is real down. He hasn't been eating. He didn't even go to the garden this morning.”

Cub lets loose a sigh that weighs a ton. “Dill, I heard my mom on the phone with Mrs. Peterson this morning. Dogs killed two of the Petersons' prize sheep last night.”

The pitchfork handle slips from my hands, smacking the wall. “That's the second sheep attack this week.”

“Both while Dead End has been gone.” Now Cub kicks at straw.

“We got to get over there.”

“Dill, those dogs are long gone by now and…”

I lift my hand in a stop signal because riding boots scuff the concrete outside the stall. “Listening in, again, Skeeter?”

He steps into the doorway, gripping his silver-handled crop. “What do you two know about the sheep killings?”

Cub whips around fast, almost dislocates his head from his neck. “Buzz off, Mosquito-breath.”

“No, I won't
buzz off,
” Skeeter whines. “The sheriff asked me to help him. I could turn you in.”

As I step toward Skeeter, to wipe the know-it-all grin off his face, Ms. Hunter's riding boots smack the concrete fast, moving down an out-of-sight aisle. “Dill?” The tension in her voice echoes.

“Captain's stall,” I call.

Ms. Hunter steps up behind Skeeter. She stands tall, as always, but her eyes are wide. Her mouth twitches.

She glances at Cub, then Skeeter before her blue-eyed gaze settles on me. “Dill, your father called. We need to reschedule your riding lesson.” She pushes past Skeeter and touches my shoulder in the same gentle way Mom used to do. My nose fills with the scents of saddle soap and horse. She blinks. “You need to get home.”

My heart jerks, and suddenly feels as if someone has punched it. I shoot out of the stall.

“What's wrong?” Cub asks Ms. Hunter, the question echoing behind me.

“Dill's grandfather,” Ms. Hunter tells him before I throw myself out of the stable and into the sun and heat.

The entire way home, as I pedal like some crazed maniac being chased by the devil himself, a thought tries to creep up from back in the crawl spaces of my mind: Could something being wrong with G.D. be a kind of punishment? Payback for my lies? Because somehow it makes sense that being good leads to rewards, while being anything less brings on trouble and heartache.

*   *   *

As my bike tires skid to a stop in our driveway, behind Doc Kerring's dusty and dented station wagon and Lyon's pickup truck, I almost stop breathing. It hasn't been long enough since I've seen Doc Kerring's old car on our property.