Dead Blow

by Lisa Preston

  “Wonder if this fence is all intact.”

  “It better be.”

  “Wouldn’t have been hard to get over or through that fence on foot, but with a vehicle, of any kind, someone would have to get from one pasture to the other by going through the gate at the back of the building up there, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Easy to see if the wire’s ever been cut, but that’s a bit more like a search, than me just riding along with you.”

  I explained the standard way to lay down a fence pulling the staples and standing on the wire, stretching it to the dirt. I pointed. “And there’s another way to lay a fence down. See, a lot of the posts are just stiffeners in a length of wire.”

  From Melinda’s expression, her face all wadded up, I could tell she didn’t see this at all, so I kept trying. “The real, set-in-the-ground type posts are every three or four of those verticals you see out there. A person could literally lay a loose section down, just bend the whole fence ninety degrees, stand on it, then lead a horse over it, drive cattle over it.” I pulled Skip up at the pole corral, hopped down and loose-tied him.

  Melinda nodded and shrugged and maybe winced just a little as she moved to dismount. “Just trying to think through all the possibilities.” She led Buster up to the tractor where he was happy to stand and blow sweetly at us.

  The thing with Melinda is, if I tell her plain what to do, there’s no one better at doing. I had to say which way to shore up the cribbing, but she eased the wood into place and then kicked it in hard. Working together, we had that tire back on in jig time.

  Which didn’t mean I could drive it up the hogback. The thing had no intention of starting, which was not too much of a head-scratcher. Would have been smart to figure the battery wouldn’t kick after all this time.

  Melinda rubbed her eyebrows. “Can’t this horse pull that tractor?”

  I looked at Buster, Melinda’s hand resting on his enormous shoulder. “Sure. You mean up to the shed?”

  “No, I mean about ten feet, so we can look underneath it.”

  “No point in that.” The tractor sat on a miniature high rise of packed dirt that was rippled with old use but the ground was clean enough to see nothing was hidden under the tractor, no clothes or blood or something that would raise the four eyebrows of a police clerk who wants to be a deputy and her horseshoer friend.

  She asked again. “Humor me?”

  Last time I humored her, my Intended about fell on his face. So, for grins, I retied the line from Buster’s harness to the tractor and put the transmission in neutral.

  “Walk him forward,” I said.

  She clucked to Buster and he obliged, pulling the tractor clear of its year-and-a-half-long parking spot. Then she dropped his bridle and hustled behind the tractor for a look-see.

  “Oh. Oh!”

  Twisting around in the tractor seat, I stared down at the ground behind me, thoughts coming too quick to be counted.

  “Jeez Louise in a jalopy.” I finally got that ’Rielle Blake wasn’t Heart R.

  Charley perked up at the shed. Was it my imagination, or did his little bit of a fluff tail give a wag?

  Melinda was still gawking at the tracks and hadn’t noticed my good old dog’s concern. I wasn’t too sure he had more than a passing quail on his mind anyways, but I could go for a look see at the shed alone if Melinda wanted to stare at the uncovered truth a while longer.

  Plus, I needed to pee.

  So, with Melinda staring at her prize dirt and all its meaning, I hustled up the steepest part of the hogback in the direct route to the shed.

  For the gajillionth time in my life, I wished I’d put things together quicker. The hammer. The TrailTime deletion. The picture Biff took.

  Trappy hoofbeats made the duh-duh, duh-duh sound so different from other horses.

  I should have been thinking faster when the too-even sound of a Paso came in a soft echo through the shed.

  Loretta Pritchard stared at me and I stared at her rushing out of the shed, heading for the fence connection at the water trough.

  “Hey.” I yelled, unable to do more but watch and continue climbing the hogback.

  Charley wagged at the horse, at me, shifting about, pleased as ever.

  Loretta dismounted and reached quick as a snake for the gate handle, then dropped the tension on the electric wire that was keeping everyone in the west field safe from Dragoon in the Buckeye’s east field.

  The bull was watching, too. His attention focused past me, to Melinda or Buster.

  Buster. Buster, still hitched to the tractor.

  Dragoon did a cocky challenge snort that threatened pain.

  At the pole corral, Skip snorted, yanked himself free and made dust, galloping for the trail into the ravine. Skip’s sprint drew Dragoon’s attention even harder. Though Loretta was closer to the bull, she was off to his side, out of sight, through the shed. I knew she’d clear the gate that led to the safety of the lease land.

  As bad a spot as I was in, my first sick thought was that a draft horse was no match in speed for a put-out bull. And that’s what Dragoon became right then—true to his reputation, fixed on the horse in his line of sight. I whirled and screamed at Melinda.

  “Get Buster free of that tractor!”

  She didn’t. She slapped the horse’s chest, tugged his reins back toward his neck, and clucked at him. Buster leaned back into the breeching straps across his haunches and pushed the tractor right back where it had rested all this while, protecting the evidence we’d exposed.

  A year and a half, covering the tracks of Loretta’s Paso, and Melinda thought she needed to cover them for the next two minutes?

  Two minutes might be the rest of our lives.

  Then Melinda freed Buster from the tractor. But a draft horse isn’t a runner. Dragoon could catch him, gore him. Time that I could have spent running up the hogback, I stood with tears in my eyes watching Buster decide best what to do. The big horse gave an alarm snort and turned tail to run, inspired by Skip. I froze, not wanting to attract Dragoon. Melinda hunkered in a squat on the tractor seat. Guess she didn’t want to chance leaving her legs dangling. The bull barreled by her, pegging for my borrowed draft horse, who ran.

  Soon as she saw Dragoon’s interest was all about Buster, Melinda threw herself off the tractor and charged up the hogback toward me. “Come on, come on! We’ve got to get to that shed!”

  Buster, bless his brave soul, decided he wasn’t a runner. He butted his chest against the ragged remnants of the pole corral where Skip was supposed to be. I think he and I were both worried that Dragoon might just run through his back end. After all, Buster would only have the one chance at kicking the tar out of the bull’s face. That horse of heart turned himself around before Dragoon got there. He backed himself against the poles and said he’d face all comers.

  The bull stopped when he saw the draft horse squared off with pinned ears.

  Dragoon should have run into a big tough horse a long time ago. Might have quelled his aggression against God’s finest animal. Bile pitched up into my mouth.

  Pawing, Dragoon shook his head, snot and sweat flying through the air as his neck lolled, choosing who to crush. He had his pick of anyone in his path with less power than Buster.

  “Should we split up? Make him divide his attention?” Melinda caught me on the hill and paused, dancing from one foot to the other, like she was willing me to go with her idea. Us parting ways would certainly divvy up the bull’s attention, sealing an escape for the one he didn’t pick and sealing the death warrant on whoever he picked for a quick goring and grinding into compost. If there were hiding places in two different directions for us to run to, it would guarantee one of us lived. The shed—once the drainpipe or corner post was climbed—looked to be our only close hope. Beyond the shed, the rocks on the lease land might offer a hiding spot.

  “Run for it!” I wished I had a Quarter Horse under my butt. Ahorseback wasn’t a good and comfortable way
to be around Dragoon but afoot was way worse. Melinda and I pelted up that steep slope.

  Turns out, a woman who can run two hours without stopping can also scramble up a hogback a lot faster than a horseshoer. I could do the math well enough, seeing how far I had to go for safety at the shed. Melinda saw that the roof was the place to be, and set to start shinnying up the nearest corner post with a starter boost from the edge of the water trough. The last glance I allowed over my shoulder showed how long it’d be ’til that amazingly fast and enormous angry bull would catch me.

  And then my right foot bogged down in a patch of super soft dirt amongst the hard scrabble. In a flash, I slipped to my knees and would need one or two whole seconds to get up.

  Never. I would never make it to safety at the shed before Dragoon crushed me with his skull.

  Chapter 29

  CHARLEY’S LEGS TREMBLED AS THOUGH HE was in seizure.

  Old dog legs do that. Excited dog legs, too. And sometimes a working dog, who aches to work, will quiver with anticipation. Charley had all three reasons to shake. I prayed his feet wouldn’t fail him now as he challenged Dragoon in a series of yipping charges.

  Rolling in the dirt as I scrambled up the hogback, I slipped again, knees in the dirt and pushed on without looking back. Behind me, I could hear the bull snort. I could sense Charley’s stress.

  And his courage.

  Playing chicken is a tough game when it’s being done for keeps. Probably, both the bull and my dog were willing to take it as far as it could go. Old Charley weighed about thirty pounds. Dragoon weighed in at a near-ton of bad news.

  Size matters.

  But Charley matters to me, so I matter to him. He snarled at Dragoon, made another run, then jinked around, barely avoiding the bull’s crushing head.

  Dragoon turned away from me and the hill, tried for Charley again.

  Zipping by, Charley gave that put-out bull What For in little growls. Wasted breath, that’s what Charley’s snarly threats were.

  I couldn’t watch. And I had to get myself safe to not waste Charley’s effort. Melinda beckoned. As I reached the top of the hogback, she yanked my sleeve.

  She should have already scrambled for the shed’s rooftop, but she’d waited for me.

  “The roof.” The two words popped out of my mouth as we ran for it.

  The gutter downspout came down with a shriek of weak metal, so there was a climbing aid that wouldn’t work again.

  We had one more chance, with every bit of muscle power. One try. Stretching up with every fiber in my arms and chest, I caught the roof edge in a death grip that felt like I was breaking my fingers. Melinda managed the same and we banged ourselves up in torso-scraping rips until we chinned our upper bodies onto the roof. Then we air-kicked ’til we could swing a leg up.

  It’s the kind of desperate leap and pull-up that can be managed once in a lifetime, in every way that counts. Muscles shredding, I used every last bit of upper body strength.

  We were spent, but we’d made it. I rolled over on the corrugated metal roof, onto my feet, careful to bend all my joints for stability, desperate to see my boy get clear, too.

  “That’ll do, Charley, that’ll do.” I screamed his release command at the top of my lungs. Shouting is not the right way to command a dog. High-pitched desperation made my voice sound like a stranger’s.

  Charley became a fur blur, shooting between the strands of barbed wire back for the relative safety of the federal lease land.

  Below us, hoofbeats pounded irregularly amid shouts of, “Whoa! Whoa!”

  Then came a shriek, a thud and the sound of a retreating gallop, followed by a shout of terror.

  Panic is contagious in horses. My voice, Melinda’s urging, our frantic running, it had all signaled urgency and fear. Loretta’s Paso had had enough exposure to the infection of terror.

  I couldn’t place the sound at first but the next noise made sense: hoof beats coming up the hogback, accompanied by the bull’s snorts. Those were cloven hoofbeats!

  That’d teach Loretta to try to kill us and then hang around to enjoy the show. I realized she’d hung at the back gate, not even closed it.

  And as she went to remount, she got dumped.

  Beneath us, Loretta screamed again, giving Dragoon focus.

  By then, I’d had more than I could enjoy and wanted to tell her to shut up. Loretta having a hissy fit wasn’t going to grow any sympathy in me.

  Dragoon kept trotting up the hogback, all the way to the shed.

  “She’s going to get hurt,” Melinda said, worrying at the edge of the roof. “That bull’s looking for a target.”

  That didn’t seem like something needed pointing out. Loretta’s scream was calling Dragoon like a siren.

  “You do know she just tried to kill us?” I asked.

  “I have to help her.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Send him,” Melinda said, sliding to the edge of the roof.

  “Send who what?”

  “Send your dog,” Melinda snapped. “Send him after the bull again.”

  Charley was safe now, tucked into the rocks on the lease land, Dragoon’s attention all about Loretta. I could hear her in the shed below us. She’d fallen for the false feeling of safety, a roof over her head.

  But it was an open shed, even Dragoon could figure that out.

  I looked out, north and south. My dog on one side, Dragoon puffing up the other. Loretta beneath me, about to die. Her Paso was gone. Skip was gone. Buster moved away from the pole corral, headed to the ravine trail Skip had taken.

  “Rainy, you’ve got to send your dog before the bull gets Loretta. People before pets.”

  I didn’t want to trade Charley’s life for Loretta’s. She’d caused all this mess. Swallowing, trying to keep my voice a strong command tone instead of cracking, I half-sobbed and called my tired old dog out of his safety.

  “Charley? Away to me.”

  He popped out of the rocks and loped long, circling in a push that would put him facing the bull, trying to beat him to the shed.

  Just before Dragoon got to the shed’s opening and the human target hiding there, he snorted, stopped, and eyed the panting old dog.

  Then the bull switched course and started a new charge—away from Loretta, bent on smoking my Charley.

  Melinda dropped off the roof, hitting the ground as soon as Dragoon turned away. I could hear her bustling about down there, but I watched my dog.

  “Charley, come bye!”

  Charley reversed direction and I prayed he had enough of a head start as I called his release command again.

  “That’ll do, Charley! That’ll do!”

  Dragoon’s charge hit top speed.

  Charley shot through the barbed wire again and ran for cover in the rocks with barely a few body lengths to spare as Dragoon tried to kill him.

  A shovel blade flew up in my face.

  “Grab it, Rainy! I’ll lift her high enough to hold onto this end.” The next sound was Melinda’s grunt as she lifted Loretta Pritchard straight up.

  I power-yanked on that shovel. Loretta appeared, red-faced and white-knuckled, her grip slipping on the shovel handle.

  Bizarre it was, hauling her body up onto the shed roof beside mine. The woman had just tried to get us killed.

  “Let go,” I yelled at Loretta as soon as I got her fully on the roof. I pulled the shovel free and pushed it down at Melinda. Leaned over the edge to pull Melinda up to safety.

  I braced one foot against the remains of the gutter. I stretched down and held fast. No way I’d let go. Melinda kicked a leg up and I grabbed her waistband. It had been easier to climb up the first time. We were peaked now.

  All I could picture from the eyeballs that wanted to be in the back of my head was Loretta putting a boot in my behind and helping me on over, again ditching my buddy and me in the dirt as bull bait.

  The barbed wire fence stopped Dragoon from going after Charley, so the danged bull was trotting bac
k up to the shed in search of entertainment. Of course, Dragoon could pass under the shed roof and be on the lease land where my old hero dog waited, but if he did, Charley’d have time enough to scoot back under the barbed wire. They could see-saw who got what chunk of land forever, as long as the bull still respected that wire fence.

  And we were safe, atop the shed. When Melinda sat up on the roof, I set the shovel down gently, extending it up the roofline so it might not slide away. Loretta glanced at the shovel we’d used for a rope to pull her to safety. Then she glared at us good and ugly.

  Just the three of us sitting on a shed roof with nothing to do but make girl-talk.

  The shoe that made that track was in Ol’ Blue.

  “We know, Loretta,” I said. “Your Paso has an odd shoe, makes an odd track. You rode right up to Cameron Chevigny when he was pinned under the tractor. We’ve got—”

  “You’ve got nothing!” The physical threat of Dragoon was over and the hard work of getting to safety on the shed roof was behind us, but Loretta’s chest heaved, inhalations coming faster and deeper through an open-mouthed snarl.

  “Rainy can identify your horse’s tracks,” Melinda said.

  I eyed Loretta steadily. “The sheriff’s department has the empty shell casing from the round you fired.” Had I ever told Melinda about the casing? Had the old Suit Fellow? I couldn’t look at Melinda, ’cause I wanted to watch Loretta, but I pointed to my girlfriend. “And thanks to her, they have the bullet from inside the tire.

  “You fucking bitch.” Loretta glared at me. “Both of you.”

  “If I were you,” I said, “I wouldn’t talk that way.”

  “If you were me,” she said right back, “I bet you would.”

  “Donna heard you on the phone, telling Cameron about this knife you hid for him by this shed’s gutter.” I twisted my body to show the scabbard on my belt.

  Loretta did a double take at the sight of the Heart R knife.

  A hammer, Darby had said, bought at the same time as the Heart R knife. I could see a guy like Cameron Chevigny special ordering through Darby instead of going online for his ordering. I could see him pouring over a special tool catalogue with his chippie, Loretta. They’d probably ordered the gifts through Darby so their spouses wouldn’t chance to see the deliveries.