The white truck coming up the drive braked hard between the house and the barn. It was Mr. Brodie, their neighbor.
Danny nudged Pete across the pen to the fence.
Mr. Brodie got out and started for the house, dust from his abrupt stop churning around him.
“Over here,” Danny called.
Mr. Brodie turned and strode over in his coveralls and sweat-stained straw hat.
Looking down from atop Pete, Danny was about to say hello, but the pinched look on Mr. Brodie’s face stopped him.
Danny hunched forward, his forearms resting on the saddle horn. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brodie, but Dad’s not home.”
Mr. Brodie’s usual way was to spend a minute or two small talking before he got to his business.
But not today. “We got a problem, you and me.”
“We do?”
“It’s your dog.”
Danny froze, then glanced over at the truck and saw the rifle in the window rack. It would only be there if he were going hunting. It wasn’t hunting season. A wave of terror ran through him.
Danny dismounted and stood holding the reins, the two of them separated by the fence. “What’s the problem?”
“Thought you’d of trained that dog by now, Danny. But he ain’t trained at all. Him and a pack of dogs was over to my place in the middle of the night, trying to take down my sheep. My boys heard ’em and ran out and chased ’em off with a rifle. Billy winged one of ’em. Said it might have been that dog of yours.”
Danny’s legs weakened. He leaned against Pete.
Mr. Brodie glared, his eyes like small brown marbles.
“Banjo doesn’t chase sheep, Mr. Brodie.”
“I told you when you got him feral dogs can’t be trusted, even if they’s been domesticated. And now he’s gone back to his old ways. I can’t have dogs taking down my livestock. He’s got to go. Now.”
Danny balled his fists to hide his trembling fingers. “Banjo isn’t a wild dog.” It was all he could think of to say.
“My boys could have shot him dead, but because it was your dog, they didn’t. Out of courtesy. Now we got to decide what you’re going to do about it.”
“How…how could they tell it was my dog? It was dark.”
Mr. Brodie squinted. Danny thought he might be thinking about saying how flat-out rude he was for a boy his age.
“You’ll know when he comes home with a flesh wound. I won’t put up with it no longer. I’ve had three attacks in two years.”
“Those were coyotes.”
“Dogs ain’t no diff’rent. You got to put that wild one of yours down.”
Danny’s jaw dropped. I’m not hearing this. This is our neighbor, a friend. “You can’t mean that, Mr. Brodie, I—”
“Oh, I mean ever word.”
“Well…I…no, sir…nobody’s shooting my dog.”
“You sure your daddy ain’t here?”
“Yes.”
“When’s he back?”
Danny stared at Mr. Brodie. This isn’t happening.
Mr. Brodie glared, then grunted and headed to his truck. “This ain’t over.”
Danny clenched and released his fists as the truck drove off.
His mind whirled as he headed over toward the barn with Pete.
Mr. Brodie would come back. And Danny knew Dad would have to agree with him. They’d been neighbors for all of Danny’s life, and each of them had had trouble with coyotes and wild dogs. When you saw them attacking your livestock, you shot them. And the law had no problem with it.
Danny remembered what Dad had told him and Tyrell seven years ago, when he’d first brought Banjo home. One thing you boys need to keep in mind is that this dog came from the wild. The guy I got him from thinks he was once domestic, but still, we don’t know how he’s going to act around the horses. I’m trusting you to keep a close eye on him. If he shows the slightest urge to worry the livestock, I need to know.
Maybe he was wild once, Danny thought. But Banjo’s a good dog, and he’s never chased their sheep.
If he shows the slightest urge to worry the livestock, I need to know.
If what Mr. Brodie said was true, he’d have to give Banjo up.
Danny staggered and leaned against Pete.
Find Banjo.
Must find Banjo.