Ben, struggling free of his rucksack, plunged downhill with his gun. At the same moment, off to the east, he spotted a light on the ridge crest—the solitary headlamp of a vehicle—and then he recognized the silhouette of a dirt bike raising dust in a high channel as it careened in his direction.
He saw the world through his one good eye, through the wire-rimmed glasses from another time, appearing as though underwater as he stumbled down toward the welter of dogs, the dirt bike approaching through the sage. There was no time to ponder anything. The hounds, he saw, had finished with the coyote and were turning their attention to Rex.
His dog seemed astonished to find matters so, wheeling back against the tide of hounds, growling and baring his teeth. The hounds advanced with mad insistence and sent Rex sprawling into the dust, and then one seized him firmly at the hindquarters, another sunk his teeth into his withers, and a third clutched him at the throat.
Ben lashed into their midst yelling, raised his shotgun toward the stars, and fired a deafening warning. Immediately, the hounds desisted, tongues hanging, whimpering, except that one still had Rex by the throat and tossed him left and right.
Ben waded forward and slammed the butt of his shotgun against the ribs of this hound. He saw how desperate Rex was now, pinned by the throat against the earth, his breathing hollow, reedy. Ben kicked the wolfhound as hard as he could, first in the ribs and next in the head, swearing at it under his breath, but it was as though he hadn't kicked at all. And now there was no time for anything else, Rex was dying as he stood and watched, and he had to act without compromise and in a way he had much resisted acting in the years since his war ended. He set his teeth, grimacing, then pushed the barrel of his Winchester home against the ribs he'd kicked before, and squeezed the guns front trigger.
He had no time to contemplate the outcome or to deliberate with morbid revulsion on the destructive force of his shotgun. Instead, he knelt to look at Rex.
Rex, on his side, twisted slowly in the dust, exerting himself like a drunk man. He meant to rise but could not find the means, and howled a note of pain such as Ben had never heard issue from the throat of any dog. Something like human suffering was in it—a high, piercing wail. The dog's hindquarters were clearly ravaged, and Ben feared his spine was broken. "I'm sorry, Rex," he said.
He tried to put a hand on Rex's flank, but the dog writhed, his howl surged higher, and Ben thought better of it. The wolfhounds leered at him uncertainly, keeping a respectful distance. Ben swore at one, and it loped away.
The dirt bike stopped in front of him, throwing sand from under its tires, and the rider, whom he could not see—he had his headlamp aimed in Ben's direction—cut the low-throated motor. Ben caught a glimpse of one heavy boot as it came to rest against the sand, its steel toe protruding through the leather. He threw his free hand over his forehead and tried to make out the face of the rider, but to no avail: he was jacklighted. He was as blind and incapacitated as a deer in a car's high beams.
"Supposing you put out that light," he said. "The thing is blinding me."
"It's my coyote spotter," the rider called.
The light stayed on, blindingly. "Your dog looks pretty torn up," said the rider. "But mine there looks plain dead."
Rex howled, but the tenor of it had changed, as if he'd made an adjustment.
"I had to shoot him," Ben explained. "He was tearing up my dog."
"Whyn't you just kick him off?"
"I tried that. It didn't work."
"Always works with me," said the rider. "I don't know why it wouldn't."
"Your dog had mine by the throat," Ben said. "He was strangling him. I didn't have a choice."
"Well, you're too damn fast to use your shotgun," the rider admonished him. "I've kicked every one of these dogs before. You give em a kick, they listen."
"All right," said Ben. "Turn that light out."
"Hey," the rider answered firmly. "You don't have a right to be out here, so you don't have any leg to stand on, do you, asking me to put out my light. Not while you're on private property, out here trespassing, damn it."
His voice was that of the country around them, flat and laden with certainty and an intention to get things done. Ben recognized it as the voice of men he'd known in his youth and childhood, the voice of the farmers and ranchers of the basin, and he knew there was no arguing with it.
"I'm sorry," said Ben. "It shouldn't have happened. But like I said, I didn't have a choice."
The rider seemed to contemplate this. "Damn," he said. "Listen here. You pick up that gun of yours. Carefully."
Ben did so, holding it by the breechblock, in his right hand, away from him.
"It's a side-by-side," the rider said. "I believe I can see that from here."
"You're right," Ben answered. "It is."
"Well, you fired two shots," the rider said. "So unless you reloaded after shooting my dog, the barrels are empty right now."
"I didn't reload," Ben said. "Why don't I break the gun open?"
"No," said the rider. "I don't want that. I want you to toss it out in front of you. With one hand, as far as you can. And I want you to do it now."
Ben hesitated. The Winchester had been his father's gun. "Look," he said. "Throwing it that way might damage it. What if I just put it down?"
Again there was a pause from behind the light, the disembod ied voice gone silent. "All right," the rider said at last. "You set it down there in front of you. I'm watching. You go ahead."
Ben set the gun down gently. "There," he said. "That's that now. I'm going to see to my dog."
"Hold on," said the rider. "I want you to go on over there and get beside that dog you killed and take a look at him for me."
"What?"
"Get over there and take a look. Just go on now. Do it."
"Listen," said Ben. "I'm sorry he's dead. But it's my dog who needs attending to, if—"
"That dog's going to be all right. You get over there."
"Listen," said Ben. "I—"
"Look," the rider said firmly. "Just you do like you're told. I got my gun pointed at your head and I want you over there."
"All right," Ben told him. "I'm going."
He stumbled to the dead wolfhound. It lay on its side about five feet off, where the force of the shot had thrown it. Its midsection, its withers and flanks, were bright with viscera and bits of white bone, and its head lay tilted at an unnatural angle, as if it had been severed and then reconnected incorrectly. "Okay," Ben said. "Now what?"
The rider adjusted his dirt bike slightly so as to throw a full light on Ben. "Read his collar there for me," he demanded. "The tag's at his throat. Read it."
Ben dropped stiffly to one knee and took the slain dog's collar. He worked it around until he found the tag. He squinted for a long moment. "Jim," he said. "I think it reads Jim. I can't tell. My eyes are bad."
"Jim," said the rider. "Damn."
"I'm sorry," Ben said. "I am."
The rider again fell silent. "Jim," he said after awhile.
"He had my dog by the throat," Ben explained.
"You shouldn't have done it," the rider said. "I don't want to hear about it."
"Fine," said Ben. "You won't."
"Damn," said the rider. "Come out in front now. And keep your hands up high."
Ben rose and stepped around the dog, his face averted from the light.
"On the ground, now. Face down, go on. And spread everything out."
"What for?"
"Just do like you're told."
"I have to look after my dog now."
"He can look after himself, damn it. You get down on the ground."
Ben lay down on his belly. He rested his cheek against the sand.
"All right," said the rider. "You turn your head. Look off toward the west there."
Ben did so.
"Just so you don't get nervous," said the rider. "I'm going to take a walk out here and pick your gun off the ground."
"Go ah
ead," said Ben.
"And this coyote here," the rider said. "I'm going to take his tail."
"All right," said Ben. "Go ahead."
He waited while the rider went about his business. One of the wolfhounds sat in Ben's view, dour and bored-looking. Ben listened to Rex's whimpering and the sound of the rider's boots. Then to the sound of his shotgun broke open, the metallic snap of the action. "Say," said the rider. "A regular antique. And some fancy looking engraving."
"It's a Winchester 21," said Ben.
"What do you figure it's worth?" said the rider. "Because replacing Jim'll cost me some. A dog like that isn't cheap."
"I don't really know," said Ben.
"Anyway," the rider informed him. "I can't exactly leave this here. You're liable to shoot me in the back with it. So I'm going to sell your shotgun off and get myself a new hound."
"Now wait a minute," Ben said. "That's highway robbery."
"Shut your mouth," said the rider. "You just shut your mouth now." He snapped the guns action closed again. "Smooth," he said. "You just stay right there. Don't you move a muscle."
Ben made no reply.
The rider whistled his hounds in about him. Ben heard the soft trotting sounds of their feet. "I ought to make you bury Jim," the rider announced bitterly. "I ought to make you paw out a hole and give Jim a decent grave."
"I didn't have a choice," Ben said again. "Jim was strangling my Brittany."
He struggled to his feet, brushed the dirt from his jacket. "Shoot me if you want," he told the rider. "I'm looking after my dog."
"Shooting you'd just be more trouble," the rider answered him. "If shooting you could bring Jim back, I wouldn't even think to hesitate."
"It couldn't be helped," Ben said. "He was killing my dog, like I told you. I didn't have a choice."
"Well, now you don't have a shotgun," said the rider. "So it can't happen again."
"Go to hell," Ben said.
In the nimbus of light around the rider his remaining wolfhounds milled. Ben could see them in silhouette, turning restlessly.
"I'll tell you what's got me worried," said the rider. "Maybe while I'm tearing out of here, you'll try'n plug me in the back,"
"With what?" said Ben. "You stole my gun."
"With whatever else you got on you. Hidden down your pant leg."
The rider started up his bike with a hard shove that registered beyond the light. "I'll tell you what," he said above its roar. "If you can draw that fast and hit a moving target, specially blinded the way you are, you deserve to get your gun back."
He spun out suddenly in a spray of sand aimed in Ben's direction. The dirt bike turned, gathered speed, and found its way between clumps of sage, the pack of wolfhounds following it as though on a casual training run, the rider intentionally veering to and fro in an effort to dodge the bullets he imagined Ben was aiming at his back. But, of course, there were no such bullets. Ben had already turned away to kneel, a doctor, beside his dog.
SIX
Rex had ceased to struggle. He seemed languid in a way that suggested shock, yet his breathing came neither rapid nor shallow, nor did he heave with a racing pulse, nor did he seem submerged in a torpor, but merely patient with the state of things, containing his distress in some private space, yielding himself to fate.
Ben rose and located his rucksack, uphill in the sage. Then he knelt beside his dog, and with his medical kit propped open beside him, his headlamp fixed just over his eyes, took stock of Rex's wounds.
"I'm sorry, Rex," he whispered.
Using moist towelettes from his kit, he scrubbed his fingers thoroughly. He unraveled a length of sterile gauze and draped it over one shoulder. Gently he put one knee on the dog's head, the other in his rib cage. Rex lurched with a feeble resistance, growled, and lurched again. Ben formed the gauze into a hanging loop and maneuvered it over Rex's muzzle. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know it's not pleasant," and then he snugged it moderately tight, crossed the ends beneath the dog's chin, brought them up behind his ears and tied them off at the top of his head, so that Rex looked like a soldier with a head wound dressed on the field of battle. "There," said Ben. "We're done now."
Lifting his pinning weight from the dog, he lay a hand against Rex's flank and stroked him soothingly. "You're all right," he said. The dog whimpered through the makeshift muzzle. He did not seem entirely resigned; there was a hint of anxiety in his voice.
"You're all right," Ben said again. "I'm just going to look."
Under the headlamp, working through the fur, following the evidence of blood matted there, he took account of Rex's wounds: the left hamstring, between the hip and stifle, was punctured and swollen from hemorrhage; from shoulder to shoulder, low across the withers, a long run of skin had been ripped open, a gaping tear he could retract with his fingers to reveal the transparent fascia, the blunt tips of the spinal column, and the neat bone of the shoulder blades; and finally a broad tearing of the skin at Rex's throat, exposing one jugular.
For many years Ben had played, informally, the role of climbing expedition doctor, and his kit testified to that. He carried Compazine, erythromycin, butterfly bandages, roller gauze, Telfa and adhesive bandages. He also carried a scalpel with a set of blades and suture material in packets. Ben had field-stitched pocketknife cuts and an ice-ax laceration. He had, in the field, set a fractured arm, had reduced both shoulder and hip dislocations, and had seen to the construction of makeshift litters, transport slings, and crutches. Yet he had never field-stitched a dog before, and that was needed now. Rex had a desert journey in front of him. He would need his wounds closed first.
There was plenty of downed willow on the bank of the draw, and Ben dragged out what he could in ten minutes and with his spearpoint blade cut shavings. His cigarette lighter sparked sluggishly, so he squeezed it inside his armpit. He lit one of the paraffin fire starters and built, quickly, an extravagant blaze. The wizened willow burned hot and clean. He heaped long branches of it on, then sat by Rex, watching him, one hand brushing his coat. He hoped Tristan would smell the blaze and come to it soon, unharmed.
Ben drank again from his water bottle. He had not passed a night so physically taxing since the assault on the tunnels at Lago di Garda and the counterattacks the retreating Germans made against the town of Torbole. He sat close to the fire's heat, his body seeking to balance itself after the surges of marijuana and adrenaline that had coursed through it these past hours. His exertions and the tension of confronting the shotgun thief had been at war with his drug-induced reveries, the dream world he'd inhabited. But he felt at last that he was coming loose of his addled, soporific haze. He had entered a place of tired clarity. He was alert in some enervated, worn-out fashion, with the kind of acuity one arrives at in the aftermath of fever.
After awhile, when the dog seemed calm, he washed his hands a second time, drew out his suture needle, opened a packet of two-ought nylon suture—the only sort he had on hand—and rinsed the needle in antiseptic.
"All right," he said. "It'll hurt a little, Rex. A lot less than what you've been through, though. We'll just go at it carefully."
He pulled up his coat sleeves, adjusted his headlamp. He pinned Rex again beneath his knees, and held him down firmly with his left hand, which seemed the only workable position. He would have to throw stitches in a one-handed fashion, in a continuous pattern, like a seamstress. "Here we go," he whispered.
Rex heaved beneath him when he threw the first stitch and again when he tied the anchor, but after that the dog surrendered. He was braver than Ben had anticipated, more patient in the face of pain. Rex had always seemed too brash, too headlong and imprudently eager, but now he acquitted himself with a decorous restraint, and endured nobly. Ben felt a grudging admiration.
When the dog had been sutured at the throat and back, he slept as though to obliterate the truth of the various insults he'd suffered. Ben worked the muzzle free and caressed Rex's flank while examining his handiwork. The stitches, he concluded,
were not too bad, given the conditions under which they'd been thrown. They gave him a curious pleasure.
He banked up his fire. He was hungry now, hungrier than he'd been in a long while, and he pulled the chukars out of his rucksack and skinned each in the light of his headlamp, cutting the backs and viscera out along with the second joints of the wings and culling the small legs and thighs. He skewered the breasts and the dark meat on willow sticks; the rest he buried in the sand. He drew himself up to the fire, into the smoke and light and heat, and with a slow care not to burn the meat, grilled it much as he'd done long ago, camping in the sage hills with Aidan.
Ben ate indulgently. He devoured the birds to the bones. They tasted better than anything he'd eaten in weeks, many weeks. He drank a little water, with an eye toward conserving; Rex, he knew, would need some. There were the blond girl's pumpkin seeds, and he ate them too, and thought of her with a distant ache and a faint trace of desire. It was not so much her as the thought of her, of having been once young himself, of Rachel's skin against his own, the smell of Rachel's mouth and throat—everything he could not replace or easily let go of. And why couldn't he detach himself from this earthly, mad desire? Why did he go on wanting a woman who no longer lived in this world? Her hold on him was still great, a need with roots in his core. To die, he thought, was to escape passions grasp, but that was the last thing he wanted. Instead he wished to be seized by passion and pinioned, held in its palm forever—he could not imagine any other existence as embracing any real happiness.
Ben reserved some meat for Rex and limped to the draw for more willow branches. He worked slowly at the gathering of wood. It was important now to marshal his energies. A long journey lay ahead of him.
He stumbled onto the corpse of the coyote, its neck distended by the whiplashings of the hounds, its tail cut off by the dirt-bike rider who'd stolen his father's shotgun. Then he remembered the dead wolfhound and went to it, his headlamp a grisly spotlight. The picture before him gave him pause, inspiring a stab of regret. The dog's abdomen was an abraded pulp of raw muscle, splintered bone, and purple, glistening viscera smelling of half-digested food. It was an unkind thing to look on, but worse to consider that he himself was the agent of this destruction. Ben dropped to one knee, penitent.
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