Scott led Kaylah back to the barn, to the stall where the sled was. Somehow that small square of space seemed safer than any other spot on this huge farm.
“Come on, Kaylah. I’ll feed you in your own pad and then we’ll talk about you biting that guy.” It worried Scott. He knew, just knew, that Kaylah would never bite, but something had happened.
Inside the stall Scott poured kibble into Kaylah’s blue bowl, then mixed it with some canned food left over from last night. He put it on the floor, and the dog began to gulp it down.
“You’re gonna get a giant-sized bellyache, eating like that,” Scott said, leaning against a wall.
Kaylah looked up, a small bit of meat still stuck to his nose, and he burped before checking his bowl once again. Then he lay down near Scott’s feet and rolled in the straw on the floor.
“Maybe, if we stay here long enough, the whole scene inside will blow over,” Scott said, scratching Kaylah’s rump with the toe of his boot.
But he had to face it. He was worried sick about Brad’s accusation. What would happen to Kaylah if it were true, or even if Mom and Mr. Hartfield believed it? Mom wouldn’t believe it. She’d be on his side. She knew Mallys as well as he did. He couldn’t lose Kaylah …
Suddenly Scott ran to the sled. Putting one foot on a runner, he grabbed the handlebar and began to pump with the other leg as if he were on a scooter. He bent low, squinted through imaginary snow pelting his face, and shouted, “Go, dogs, go!”
Kaylah leaped to his feet, barking, and then jumped at Scott. “Down, boy, down,” he yelled. “I didn’t mean it.”
Scott and Kaylah fell to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs, playing a wild game that was Kaylah’s favorite. They rolled and tugged until Scott grabbed the dog’s collar to signal the end of it. Kaylah looked at him, eyes shining, waiting, wanting more.
“That’s enough, you nasty, vicious critter,” Scott said, fending off the excited dog while he tried to spit straw from his mouth.
I’ve got to remember, Scott thought. I’ve got to remember what Dad said about giving commands without meaning them. Mallys know and remember. They’re so crazy to run that their remembered commands send them into orbit.
Kaylah turned suddenly to the stall’s opening. Scott turned too, to see Howdy peeking around the corner of the opening. He looked scared and suspicious.
“Is he really vicious?” Howdy asked. “I just heard Brad saying …”
“No.” Scott came down on the word hard. “He’s a good dog. He’s okay.”
“Then why did Brad—”
“It’s a mistake, Howdy. Come on, pet him.”
Howdy loosened his hold on the stall gate and took a step inside. “I don’t know …”
Scott walked over to Howdy, noticing how he towered over the kid. Howdy was such a skinny pipsqueak for being ten years old. He was little all over except for his head, which seemed as if it belonged to someone else about two sizes bigger.
Scott took him by the hand and led him to the dog. They knelt down before Kaylah. “Just pet him nice and easy. Doesn’t he have soft fur?”
“Yeah. Just like Bruno’s, only thicker.” Kaylah gave Howdy’s nose a slobbery lick.
Howdy giggled and wiped. “Guess he likes me,” he said. “I must taste good.”
This kid is pretty decent, Scott thought. Better than his brother anyway.
“Oh, I almost forget,” Howdy said, standing up. “Your mom sent me to get you.”
Scott sighed. The sound had ragged edges to it. “Okay. Guess I better see what she wants.” But he knew all right.
They headed for the house, Howdy walking close to Scott, now and then reaching out a hand to Kaylah. A thought began to buzz around Scott’s brain, like a gnat refusing to light. Suddenly he caught it. What if Brad had said something to Kaylah just before coming inside? Maybe he had said a word that sounded like a command, and the dog had started jumping around, doing his crazy routine. Any word might have done it, like “Go away” or just “Go.” Then Kaylah could have made those marks on Brad’s hands. He wasn’t biting, just playing.
It wasn’t much to go on, but it was something. He’d explain it to Mom and Mr. Hartfield before they gave him a lecture or made him get rid of the dog. He felt better now as he stood by the porch steps.
“Stay right here, Kaylah,” he said as he went inside.
Mom was pouring juice from a pitcher and looked up as Scott entered. She wore a fancy new bathrobe with ruffly things at her throat. Scott wondered what had become of the old blue one that left fuzz all over his face when she hugged him? He couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t worn the blue one. Like the times he’d been sick in the middle of the night when he was little. Things sure were different now, and getting more different all the time.
“Morning, Scott,” Mom said. “How did you sleep?”
“Okay, except I heard Kaylah and got up to see what was bothering him.” Mom’s eyes seemed a lot bluer this morning, and she was wearing lipstick. Lipstick at breakfast, for crumb’s sake. That’s a first.
“I heard him, too. Is he all right now?”
“Yeah. I just fed him.” Scott waited, waited for something to happen, for someone to say something. Mr. Hartfield was flipping pancakes on a griddle at the stove. Brad was just sitting at the table, playing with a fork, tapping it over and over on his plate.
Finally Mr. Hartfield turned, carrying a tower of pancakes on a platter. “Sit down, Scott. Hope you like my pancakes. We always have them on Sunday mornings.”
“Better wash your hands, Howdy,” Mom said quietly. Howdy looked at his dad, who nodded. “You too, Scott,” Mom said.
They walked to the sink together. “We never had to wash our hands before,” Howdy whispered.
“Get used to it,” Scott said, grabbing a towel. “You’ll be doing lots of it.” Jamie used to complain about it too, he thought.
Scott went back to the table and sat down at a place near Mom. Mr. Hartfield looked at him. “We’ve decided, your mom and I,” he said, “that whatever happened with Kaylah out there was an accident. Isn’t that right, Brad?”
“Yeah.” But Brad didn’t believe it, Scott thought. Not for a minute.
“Kaylah’s shots are up to date,” Scott said. “And he didn’t mean it, if he did it …”
“He did it.” Brad said it so quietly that Scott wondered if he’d really spoken.
“That’s enough,” Mr. Hartfield said. “We’re going to make sure that Brad’s hand doesn’t get an infection, and then forget that this happened. Got that?”
Scott breathed in a great gulp of air and nearly choked on his orange juice.
“After breakfast Brad and Howdy need to show Scott around.” Mr. Hartfield kept the platters of pancakes and eggs and bacon moving. “He needs to know where the bus stop is, for one thing.”
“Okay.” Howdy stuffed his mouth with food. “I’ll show him my secret way.”
“Secret,” Brad snorted. “It’s so secret that even the dumb sheep can follow it.”
“Where’s Caroline?” Scott looked at Mom. “It wasn’t like his sister to miss a meal.
“I checked on her just before I came downstairs,” Mom said. “She was sleeping so hard I decided not to wake her up.”
“Listen everyone, I have something to tell you.” Mr. Hartfield smiled at them all now, but especially at Mom, who smiled back. Mr. Hartfield’s eyes looked drippy, as if they were ready to melt. Scott sighed, wondering how long all this lovey-dovey stuff would go on.
“What, Dad?” Howdy helped himself to another stack of pancakes. “What’s going to happen?”
“Your mom is going to start doing all the cooking.”
“My mom?” Howdy said. “Is she coming back?”
“Man, you are so dumb,” Brad said. “You are really dumb.”
“I’m not either dumb.” Howdy’s face clouded over.
“Brad.” Mr. Hartfield tried to control his voice. “It was my fault. I didn’t say it right. Howdy is not dumb.”
“What your father means is that, starting tomorrow morning, I’m going to do the cooking,” Mom said quietly.
“And I can’t wait.” More smiles from Mr. Hartfield. “Of course, I still get to make the pancakes on Sunday mornings. Right, boys?”
Brad and Howdy looked at one another and shrugged. Finally Howdy said, “Right.” Then he looked at Mom. “Do you know how to make fried chicken and spaghetti?”
“We’ll start with fried chicken tomorrow night,” Mom said. “How about you, Brad? Do you have any favorites?”
“No.” He made the word the shortest it had ever been.
“Well, then, I’ll just surprise you.” Mom’s face turned kind of pink, to match her bathrobe.
“As long as we’re talking about surprises, I’ve got one for everybody, but especially Scott.” Mr. Hartfield stood up and began to clear the table.
Brad stood up, too, and headed for the back door.
“Where’re you going, Brad? Don’t you want to hear about my surprise?”
“I’m too big for surprises.” He grabbed his jacket from a peg by the door and went outside.
“Anyway”—Mr. Hartfield’s voice sounded too loud in the sudden silence—“I read in the paper about some sled-dog workouts that are going to be held near Havre next weekend.”
Scott felt a rush of excitement. Workouts. That meant there was a sled-dog club, probably more than one, conducting practice runs, getting ready for good snow. Some people even had dogs and equipment for sale at workouts. Maybe …
“What do you say, Scott?” Mr. Hartfield asked. “Are you interested? I think it would be great if we all went. I’ve always wondered about sled dogs, how you get ’em to run and all that. Maybe we could put a Hartfield team together.” He kept on talking, kind of babbling, trying to fill up the quiet in the kitchen with his words.
Hartfield team? Scott thought. I’m only interested in a McClure team. Why can’t he figure that out?
“Scott, what do you say?” Mom sounded a little testy. “I think it’s a great idea. We’ll all go, and I’ll fix a picnic, just like I used to. I’ll bring lots of hot chocolate in case it turns really cold.”
“Oh, boy,” Howdy said. “I’ll go if we’re going to have a picnic.”
“Then it’s all settled,” Mr. Hartfield said. “Howdy, if you’re finished eating, why don’t you take Scott outside now and show him where the bus stop is.”
“Okay.” Howdy grabbed the last piece of bacon before he slipped out of his chair, wiping his greasy fingers on his jeans.
They went outdoors and Howdy led the way around the corner of the house, turning in a direction away from the barn. There was a lawn here, bare and brown now, sloping down to a circular drive. A quick, biting wind scattered brittle leaves ahead of them as they walked along the driveway.
“Where are we going?” Scott asked, turning up his jacket collar.
Howdy pointed a skinny finger. “See those trees over there?”
Scott looked across a field of broken, brown cornstalks to a clump of cottonwoods. “Yeah, I see ’em.”
“We’re headed for my secret path right through them.”
Brad had caught up now. “You and your secrets,” he said. “Everybody knows about that path through the woods.”
“Not everybody.” Howdy’s eyes blinked fast enough to send coded signals. “Lots of people don’t.”
Brad and Howdy continued to pick away at one another as Scott gradually tuned them out. He had better things to think about, like the workouts next Saturday. But how could he keep Mr. Hartfield from interfering? Maybe he could talk to Mom before they went, explain how he wanted … needed … to do this by himself.
Scott felt Kaylah’s nose touch his hand in greeting before the Mally ran ahead to explore the woods.
“Better keep that dog on a leash when he leaves our place,” Brad said. “The guy who owns the spread next to ours shoots anything that strays onto his property.”
“Some neighbor,” Scott said. He whistled for Kaylah, expecting him to return quickly, the way he’d been trained by Dad. But Kaylah ignored Scott and ranged farther ahead.
“Minds real nice,” Brad said under his breath.
Scott felt a bubble of anger swill around inside him. So when did he get to be such an expert? Bruno wasn’t exactly a candidate for dog of the year.
“Maybe we’d better get him,” Howdy said. He entered the woods first and headed toward a path that zigzagged through the trees.
“Kaylah,” Scott called again. Where did he go? He never wandered off, not without a reason. Let’s see now, how would he handle it? Sled dogs had to respond fast when they were on the trail. If they didn’t, there was no telling what might happen. An accident, a fight, losing the trail and getting lost … he hated to think about it.
Scott saw a flash of black and white flit through the trees. There he was. “Come here, Kaylah. Come here, boy.” Scott ran across the uneven ground covered with brush. Finally he spotted the dog again, nosing around in a pile of leaves.
I wonder what he’s found, Scott thought. Something dead and about nine days old probably. Maybe an old rat. Ick. “Come,” he called. He had to make the dog obey now and keep the discipline consistent, otherwise he’d lose control. Dad always said that.
Kaylah continued to ignore him. “Doggone you,” Scott said. He picked up a dirt clod and heaved it toward the Mally. Did something stir in the leaves? Maybe the rat wasn’t dead yet.
He decided to take a quick look and ran forward to stare down. Oh, god. Oh, my god. It was a dog. Thin, ragged, suffering, needing help. The aching in the dog’s eyes hurt Scott so much that, for a second, he had to turn away from it. He could feel the dog’s pain inside his own body. But he had to look again. He couldn’t stand not to look again.
Scott forced himself to look for bleeding or oozing or a gash, whatever had injured the dog. There it was, blood all over its leg, matted, dried, rusty brown, nearly matching his coat. The dog had been shot, probably. Sure, that guy on the next spread. Shot and left to die.
“Scott, where are you?” Caroline’s voice came from somewhere back on the path, but there was no time to answer. Besides, she’d bawl and maybe scare the dog and he didn’t need that.
“Scott, hey Scott.” Howdy now, closer than Caroline. They were coming, but he couldn’t wait. He had to hurry, do something.
He slipped off his jacket and covered the dog. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered. “Don’t die. Please don’t die.”
Scott ran toward the house, feeling something wet on his cheeks. For a second he thought it was snowing. Another second later, he had to admit to himself that he was crying.