Free Gun Shy by Donna Ball Page A

was half a step behind her.
    “Good, Cisco, good. Down,” I said breathlessly, and I flicked him a treat from my pocket as I bent to ruffle his ears. “Great dog! Good job! Now, stay.”
    He looked disappointed but brightened when I tossed him another treat as I hurried off.
    Maude was kneeling beside the yellow Lab, gently examining his forelimbs as she murmured reassuring words. I could see his convulsive shivers as I approached, and when I dropped down on the other side of him, I realized that the dark streaks on his legs were blood.
    “Oh, Hero, I’m so sorry, boy. What happened? Are you okay?” I looked at Maude in anguish. “I should have brought him to the kennel with me, but he seemed fine with the other dogs, and I wasn’t going to be gone long. Do you think it was a fight? Is he okay? How did he get out of the house?”
    “Just a scratch,” Maude said briskly. “A little peroxide will do the trick just fine. Don’t baby him, Raine, you’re only reinforcing his fear.”
    I knew that, but it’s hard not to pet and comfort a dog who is lying prostrate on the ground, sides heaving, wracked with shivers. Besides, wasn’t it she who had been murmuring good-dog talk to him when I first came up?
    I repeated, “What happened?” I wasn’t sure whether I addressed the question to her or to Hero, but when I followed the direction of Maude’s pointed gaze, I knew the answer.
    Glass glittered on the front porch beneath one of the windows, and a breeze sucked the edge of one of my mother’s lace curtains through the newly formed opening. “Oh, my God,” I said softly, “He jumped through the window.”
    Maude gently slipped a loop leash over the dog’s head. “Poor thing. He must be gun-shy.”
    I looked at her grimly. “Wouldn’t you be?”
    I got to my feet. “Can you take care of him?”
    “Of course. But—”
    “I’ll be right back.”
    I called, “Cisco, load up,” as I strode to my car, and less than thirty seconds later Cisco and I were barreling down the dirt drive at a speed that left plumes of dust in our wake.
     
A sleek black Range Rover was parked just off the highway on the old logging road, just as Maude had described it. I pulled up beside it and got out of my car, slamming the door. I marched over to the Range Rover and grabbed the door handle, hoping to set off the security alarm. But the fool who owned it hadn’t even locked it, and the door swung open at my tug. In retrospect, I think this was probably a good thing, because my next move was going to be to smash out the window with a rock. Sometimes I have a temper.
    I reached inside and leaned on the horn with all my weight. I kept up the loud, steady, wailing pressure while Cisco scrambled to the front seat of my car and, propping his front paws on the dashboard, joined in the cacophony with a chorus of alert, excited barking. I kept up the pressure until my arm began to ache and I had to shift my weight to maintain my balance on the rocky ground. I would happily have kept it up until I ran the car battery down, but after what was probably no more than four minutes there was a crashing in the undergrowth where the logging road disappeared into the woods, and two men came rushing and stumbling out of the shadows.
    They were dressed like models in an L.L.Bean catalog, in tan corduroy hunting jackets with leather-trimmed pockets and flannel-lined caps with the earflaps turned up. They carried their rifles aloft like spears, waving them madly to keep their balance when they skidded on dead leaves or tripped over vines. I abruptly released the pressure on the horn, my jaw dropping in astonishment. Any ten-year-old around here knows you never carry a rifle in anything other than breach position—broken over your arm—and you most certainly never, ever run through the woods with a loaded gun. I felt as though I ought to duck.
    One of them, an overweight, red-faced man, came huffing and puffing across the lane toward me, shouting,