"I will be extra careful," Rex promised.
"Er… yes, but excavating can be dangerous too," Nate protested. "I’ve been at many a site where the workers had to flee from crashing rocks and splintering beams. I cannot hire a boy to do this sort of dangerous work."
"Rex, go on home now," Gil said gently. He could see the disappointment on the boy’s face and in his slumping posture. He knew how eager Rex must be to earn extra money. The Stewart family was surely overwhelmed with financial difficulties and mounting medical expenses. He thought of Amanda Dale and longed to relieve her burden somehow. "If there’s anything you can do later on, I’m sure Mr. Phillips will let you know." Gil fixed Nate with a meaningful stare.
Nate was quick to respond to this suggestion. "Yes, indeed, if something comes up, you’ll be the first one I seek out, Rex Stewart. That’s a promise. In the meantime, I’ve got to get some men with wagons."
"Rex, I just thought of something," Gil spoke up. "What did your father keep in that old chicken house next to the barn?"
"Nothing — not since he moved all the hens into the new building," Rex said.
"Nate, you need a storage shed of some sort, right?" Gil asked.
"C’mon, Gil, I need something bigger than an old chicken coop," Nate said, rolling his eyes.
"This is not your average coop," Gil assured him. "It’s big. And it’s weather proof with plenty of space inside to store your artifacts and supplies. Right?" He looked to Rex for confirmation.
The boy gave a quick nod. "Sure, Mr. Phillips. You could keep lots of stuff in there."
"Would your mother be willing to rent it to me for a month or so, maybe even longer? I might end up leaving some stuff here through the winter as well," Nate said.
"You could talk to my Aunt Mandy about it, but I’m sure she’ll say yes," Rex replied, his eyes bright with anticipation. "And I’d watch over everything. I’d be like a sentry guard."
Grinning, Nate ruffled the boy’s fair hair and said, "All right, Rex. I’ll come over to speak with your aunt as soon as your teacher and I visit the man at the mercantile."
****
With both hands, Amanda gripped the sheets hanging on the line.They were dry, finally. So were the diapers. She hated doing laundry once the weather grew colder. Her hands and forearms seemed to stay damp and chilled all day. If the wind kicked up, like it had done late this morning, a fine sheen of dust and grit peppered the wet linens. What she needed was an indoor clothesline, she mused, as she plucked off the clothes pegs and dropped the linens into the large wicker laundry basket. She needed to hurry. Minnie would be waking up soon from her afternoon nap and wailing for her bottle. From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of movement and caught a glimpse of something white. Bonita emerged from around the corner of the house. The dog clenched a white hen in her mouth, its innards hanging out.
"Bonita!" Amanda cried out, alarmed.
The dog dropped the dead chicken and came forward hesitantly, her head tucked down. Her broken tail drooped. Amanda could see feathers and dark sticky blood at the corner of the animal’s mouth.
"Oh, Bonita," she choked. "What have you done?" The clothes pegs fell from her hand to the ground.
A matter that had been troubling her for the past couple of nights suddenly became clear. Amanda had wondered why, if something had been preying on the chickens, the dog never barked in the night or gave chase in the dark. Now she understood. Bonita was the culprit. It made sense. Her father had told her once, when she was a girl, how dogs and even cats sometimes returned to their old ways — their wild ways. Once they developed a taste for blood and killing, they became difficult to control, no longer completely tame.
Now, staring down at the dog, Amanda’s eyes filled with hot tears. "Oh, girl, how could you?" She choked back a sob as she picked up the hen’s mangled carcass. Bonita wagged her tail in a feeble way and regarded Amanda in an eager, hopeful way.
Amanda hung her head down, covered her face with one red, chapped hand, and cried. Soon she couldn’t stop. It was as though a dam had given way. Feelings of anger and helplessness overwhelmed her. She was angry with Ella for being sick and angry with Beulah Johnson for being such a nosey busybody. Her parents and Randall Stewart could be added to the list for dying. Thinking about the chickens made her mad too — those stinking, dirty, stupid chickens that had stirred up Bonita’s wildest instincts. What was she going to tell Rex? There was no cure for blood lust. The dog now couldn’t be trusted, not entirely. Would Rex notice if she locked Bonita in the barn each night?
Her tears spent at last, Amanda splashed her tear-stained face with water from the pump nearby. She cleaned up Bonita’s muzzle, but didn’t know what to do next. Later when the dog tried to follow her into the house, Amanda shooed her away. Bonita looked as hurt as a dog can look. Somehow, she knows I no longer trust her. Amanda’s heart felt heavy with sadness. So did Bonita’s, she guessed.
When Rex came home early from school, chattering with excitement about the arrival of Mr. Phillips, Amanda spooned up some split pea soup for him, listening in a distracted way.
"They are coming here later on to look at the old chicken house, Aunt Mandy. Mr. Gladney and Mr. Phillips — and Mr. Phillips is going to pay." Rex slurped his soup and fixed his glowing eyes upon her.
"What in the world does he want with the old chicken house?" she asked, holding Minnie cradled in the crook of her arm.
"He needs storage space for his supplies and for the artifacts that he digs up." In between slurps, Rex rambled on about Mr. Phillips, his amazing automobile, and the discovery of three more skeletons.
Amanda watched as he pinched off a piece of bread and fed it to Bonita under the table. The dog wagged her tail, eagerly accepting the tidbit. Amanda had been keeping a watchful eye on the animal ever since she’d followed Rex into the house. But she hadn’t mentioned her fears about Bonita being the chicken killer yet. It would break Rex’s young heart. There had to be a way to bring up the subject somehow.
"Hey, Rex, have you ever heard of a cat eating eggs or stalking hens?" she asked, keeping her tone casual.
"Sure, Aunt Mandy. Cats get blood lust too. My dad said cats stalk birds, roosters, and hens — anything small with feathers or fur. They even bring home baby rabbits."
Blood lust. Just thinking of it made her shiver with dread. "Can you stop them from doing that?" Amanda wanted to know. "Maybe someone’s cat is coming over here at night and getting the hens." She watched his face closely, wondering if he suspected Bonita of preying upon the chickens.
Rex shrugged. "I don’t know. Pa once told me if a dog becomes an egg eater, you’re supposed to give it milk and raw egg mixed together with lots of black pepper. Lots. That’s supposed to prevent any more egg-eating," he replied. "But he never said if it would work on cats too, and I don’t know what you can do if a pet gets blood lust. Shoot it, I guess, especially if it starts biting people. They can’t be trusted after that, you know."
Amanda’s heart pounded, and her stomach roiled. The thought of ordering Rex to shoot his beloved pet made her feel cold all over. Would Bonita ever bite Rex? Or someone else? What if the dog bit Minnie, who was so small and helpless? She placed the sleeping baby back into her cradle near the stove and went to the kitchen door and shooed the dog outside. Rex cleaned up his soup bowl and put his empty dish in the sink.
"So why’d you want to know about cats chasing chickens?" he asked. "Do you think a cat has been getting after ours?"
"I was just wondering," Amanda said lamely. "I haven’t seen any cats around or anything else that might be preying upon the chickens."
Rex accepted this with a shrug. "I’m going to go do my chores now. I’ll keep an eye out for Mr. Gladney and Mr. Phillips too," he said pausing at the kitchen door.
"Go on then," Amanda replied. But who was going to keep an eye on the dog?
Chapter Seven
After speaking briefly with Mr. Schwarzkopf at the general store, Nate treated
Gil to steak and beans at the local cantina. The bright red automobile attracted the attention of everyone who saw it. Even Hiram Lister stepped out of his telegraph office to admire the fantastic machine. With patient good humor, Nate answered a farmer’s questions and allowed the local blacksmith to examine the engine. Mr. Bergschneider from the livery expressed his view that such contraptions might be fine for folks back East, but they would never replace a sturdy wagon and good team of horses for those living in the West.
Laughing, Nate slapped him on the back and said in a jovial tone, "Wait and see, my good man. Just wait and see."
Afterwards, he and Gil bounced along the old wagon tracks leading to the Stewart place. "I hope you’ll find the old structure suitable for your needs," Gil said. "The family could use the income, and it’s close to the old Indian ruins — as you’ll soon see — which makes it convenient."
He went on to provide the details of Randall Stewart’s fatal accident and the widow’s poor health, but Nate didn’t appear to be listening. "Too bad," was all he said in an absent sort of way.
Nate kept squinting up at the leaden sky. Gil thought his friend seemed more concerned about the weather than the Stewart family’s predicament. He figured Nate was worried about a possible storm coming through before he had time to take precautionary measures at the site. Feeling the raw wind in his face, Gil guessed they might indeed get some rain or snow showers during the night.
As he tilted his head to follow Nate’s gaze, he felt the same soul-stirring awe he always felt when he admired the sky out here. Whether it donned the dark and stormy colors of inclement weather, or the bold jewel tones of a brilliant sunset, the sky seemed bigger and more impressive here than the same expanse back in Indiana. He knew it wasn’t so, but it felt like it. One upward glance was all Gil needed to be reminded of God’s infinite majesty. The automobile went at such a quick pace — more than 25 miles per hour at top speed, Nate had boasted earlier — Gil had to hold his hat on to keep it from flying off his head.
As they chugged up over the rise, Gil spotted the Stewart farm. He pointed to the old building where the chickens had once been housed. A few stalwart sunflowers, their heads drooping, stood like idle guards along the front. Rex, his arms loaded with firewood, saw them immediately. The boy tumbled the wood into a pile near the kitchen door.
Gil wondered what Amanda was doing. Recalling that fateful glance in the back of the wagon, he visualized that same twinkle in her deep brown eyes, the sweet curve of her lips. The vision warmed him through and through. He fervently hoped, for her sake, Nate would rent the old abandoned chicken house for a storage shed. It would be at least one way to help the struggling family.
After bringing the vehicle to a halt with a jerk and a jolt, Nate leaned forward to honk the horn. Gil stopped him. "Don’t, Nate. There’s a baby and a sick woman in the house," he reminded his friend.
Nate gave a slight scowl after shoving his driving goggles to the top of his head.
"Hey, Rex Stewart," he greeted the boy, who came skipping toward them, the dog on his heels. Bonita ran back and forth, making sharp barks as she neared the odd conveyance. Leaning closer to Gil, Nate muttered, "Ugliest dog I’ve ever seen."
"Don’t be fooled," Gil replied. "She’s no ordinary dog. This one’s got a sense of humor." He chuckled as Nate flashed him a quizzical glance before climbing out of the driver’s seat.
"Who might this be?" Nate indicated the dog with a flap of a leather glove.
"This is Bonita," Rex announced proudly. "She can shake hands. Wanna see? Shake hands girl. Shake hands with Mr. Phillips."
Bonita obediently extended her paw. Nate reached down to take it. "Pleased to meet you, Bonita," he said in an exaggerated, courtly manner. The dog wagged her stiff, broken tail with vigor, panting with approval. Her pink tongue lolled. When Rex laughed so did Gil. Nate scratched Bonita behind the ears. She tilted her head, leaning into his fingers.
Rex’s grin widened. Turning to Gil, he said, "That’s just where she likes to be scratched the most."
He’s a good kid, Gil thought, not for the first time. He guessed Randall Stewart had been pretty proud of his boy and wondered if he’d ever told him so. With a rush of emotion, he found himself hoping Mr. Stewart had. Giving Rex a friendly pat on the shoulder, he said, "Show Mr. Phillips the old chicken house, why don’t you? Did you tell your aunt we would be stopping by?" His gaze strayed hopefully once more toward the kitchen door. There was still no sign of Amanda. He hoped everything was all right with the baby and Mrs. Stewart today.
"Aunt Mandy’s expecting you," Rex replied, before darting ahead to open the door of the abandoned chicken house. Nate followed, his long driving coat flapping around his legs. Gil shoved his hands into his corduroy coat and followed Nate; silently hoping his friend would take his time. It was his opinion Nate tended to make snap judgments. If he made up his mind the old building would not be suitable for his needs, no one would be able to sway him otherwise.
As Gil followed Rex and Nate into the old chicken house, the pungent odor of old eggs, chicken excrement, and musty straw assailed his nostrils. Shriveled wood shavings crunched beneath his boots. Wrinkling his nose, Nate cast him a dubious glance before walking the length of the building’s interior with long, purposeful strides. Gil noticed the way Rex kept his eye on Nate and how the boy appeared to be holding his breath. He knew Rex had been disappointed when Nate had not agreed to hire him to work on the excavation site. Here was another chance to earn some extra money for the family, and Rex seemed anxiously hopeful. So was Gil.
When Nate announced, "This will do," the boy’s face lit up with an eager pleasure that tugged at Gil’s heart. Sighing heavily, he realized he’d been holding his breath too.
"Let’s go see that aunt of yours, young Rex, and strike a bargain with her. Afterwards, I need to get back to the village. There’s lots to do and not a lot of time to do it in," Nate told him.
"Thank you, Mr. Phillips. Thanks a lot," Rex declared. "I’ll tell Aunt Mandy." He darted out the door with Bonita chasing after him.
This time Amanda stood waiting for them on the porch. Gil’s heart lurched at the sight of her. She wore a red calico dress and a white apron. Her long dark hair was twisted into a single braid that hung down her back making her appear young and beautiful, vulnerable and harried.
Even Nate paused in mid stride. "The aunt?"
"Amanda Dale," Gil reminded him.
Nate’s eyebrows shot up with surprised admiration. "She’s a stunner. Is she married?"
"No," Gil answered with reluctance. He didn’t like the way his friend’s keen, dark eyes gleamed with piqued interest. Nor did he like the way Nate sprung forward to introduce himself to Amanda, rather like a mountain lion attacking its prey.
"Miss Dale, I’m Nate Phillips." When he took possession of Amanda’s hands between his own, she stepped back as though startled. Nate took a step closer, and Gil could feel the heat rising along the back of his neck. He resented his friend’s impertinence and intended to tell him so later.
"Young Rex has no doubt told you, Miss Dale, how I’m in need of storage space," Nate went on. "I find that your old chicken house will suit my purposes admirably. I will need it for a month, maybe two and am prepared to pay for the privilege."
He mentioned a generous price. Overly generous. Amanda’s eyes widened. She appeared as astonished as Gil felt. "Surely, that’s too much?" she insisted, glancing from Nate to Gil and back to Nate again.
"Not at all, ma’am," Nate assured her with his most charming smile. "After all, you’re sparing me the expense of building a storage shed on site. I’m also saving a considerable amount of money by hiring local farm hands instead of outfitting a field party and having to provide them with tools, camp gear, and food."
"Well, if my nephew says it’s alright, you’re welcome to the use of it, I’m sure."
"It’s fine by me!" Rex said, fairly squirming with excitement. "Do you wanna come in for coffee
?"
"Thank you, no," Gil said, smiling at Amanda. He was more than gratified when he noted a special tenderness reflected in her dark eyes. "We must be on our way. Mr. Phillips has a lot yet to do this afternoon."
"Surely we have time for one cup of coffee?" Nate contradicted.
Clenching his jaw, Gil followed Nate into the house. He politely removed his hat as he did so. Nate, bareheaded, raked his windblown hair with his hands. Gil hated to be a bother. He knew Amanda was busy and had precious little time for social calls. His friend was attempting to charm Amanda and he resented it. At first, Nate had been chomping at the bit to get started with surveying the site. Having clapped eyes on the attractive spinster, Nate was now dragging his heels.
Silently chastising himself for his pangs of jealousy, Gil accepted a cup of coffee and watched as Amanda placed a plate of sugar cookies on the table. He resented Nate’s complacent smile, his friend’s self-assurance that Amanda Dale, like every other woman who’d crossed his path, would be charmed by his fulsome flattery. Casting a sidelong glance at Nate, he noticed his friend, while talking animatedly about his plans for the excavation, watched Amanda’s every move with an appreciative gleam in his eye.
Gil forced himself to acknowledge that Nate treated all pretty women this way. He always had. This was nothing out of the ordinary, he reminded himself. If the woman had been anyone else but Amanda, he would probably have found the encounter rather amusing. Hadn’t he done so in the past? After all, Nate was just being Nate. Instead, Gil forced himself to concentrate on his friend’s generous offer to rent the old chicken house.
But when Nate helped himself to a second cookie and held up his cup for a refill, Gil grew suspicious of his friend’s motives. His suspicions increased when Nate cleared his throat and sat up a little taller in his chair at the kitchen table.
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