Dog Gone by Cynthia Chapman Willis

Author:Cynthia Chapman Willis
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781250084149
Publisher: Feiwel & Friends

CHAPTER 8

OLD AS DIRT

The smells of horse, hay, and grain hang in the thick, stable air. Horses snort, shift, and stamp their hooves in nearby stalls. “You’re late,” I tell Cub. My hands itch to dump a pitchfork of dirty, stinking straw over his buzzed head.

Stepping into the box stall, he shifts on the untied laces of his work boots and plucks at his too-big, faded T-shirt. The Bayer family scent of bleach and fabric softener cling to his shirt and shorts, which are more wrinkled than used tissues. His mom shows her love for her family by the intense way that she does their laundry, but the woman hates ironing.

“We said we’d get the stable work done early this morning so we could go look for Dead End before my riding lesson. Remember?” Worrying about being late for my lesson makes me more cranky than usual and as tight as a pulled rubber band.

“Sorry,” Cub says. “Timmy and Jimmy, the idiot twins, locked me in the basement.” His face goes beet-purple as he stares at his work boots and kicks at hay pieces.

I dump old, wet straw into the wheelbarrow and stab the prongs of the pitchfork into more of it on the floor. “Okay, that rots, but we still need to find Dead End.” I stop, don’t say before he goes after more animals while listening for Skeeter, Jerry Smoothers, or anyone who might overhear me. “We got to find that dog before Sheriff Hawks does.”

Socrates, one of Ms. Hunter’s stable goats, clops up behind Cub and nuzzles his back pocket. When Cub doesn’t pull out a garden carrot right away, Socrates plants the knobs of his would-be horns into Cub’s butt and shoves him. Ms. Hunter has always said that she’d had both her goats dehorned for the safety of every rear end in the county.

“Nice hit, Socrates,” I mumble.

Cub gives me a prune-faced look. “Who spit in your cornflakes this morning, Dill?” He pulls out a carrot. Socrates grabs it and trots off, probably sensing my mood.

I yank the fork from bedding. “G.D. is real down. He hasn’t been eating. He didn’t even go to the garden this morning.”

Cub lets loose a sigh that weighs a ton. “Dill, I heard my mom on the phone with Mrs. Peterson this morning. Dogs killed two of the Petersons’ prize sheep last night.”

The pitchfork handle slips from my hands, smacking the wall. “That’s the second sheep attack this week.”

“Both while Dead End has been gone.” Now Cub kicks at straw.

“We got to get over there.”

“Dill, those dogs are long gone by now and…”

I lift my hand in a stop signal because riding boots scuff the concrete outside the stall. “Listening in, again, Skeeter?”

He steps into the doorway, gripping his silver-handled crop. “What do you two know about the sheep killings?”

Cub whips around fast, almost dislocates his head from his neck. “Buzz off, Mosquito-breath.”

“No, I won’t buzz off,” Skeeter whines. “The sheriff asked me to help him. I could turn you in.

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