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“This way,” said Alethea haughtily, and waggled fingers at him as she started off toward Gutsy’s home.
Spider began to follow, but Gutsy grabbed his arm. “Listen,” she said urgently, “my mom’s in there. In my room. I closed the door.”
He gaped at her, aghast. “What? How?”
She told him the bones of what had happened and he looked sick.
“Oh my God,” cried Spider. “Come on.”
They hurried to catch up with Alethea and the man carrying the coydog.
22
THE MAN BROUGHT SOMBRA INTO the house and laid him on the couch. He looked around, seeming confused as to why he was there.
“Go away now,” said Alethea with a wave of her hand.
The man cleared his throat, mumbled something, and left without waiting for a thank-you or explanation.
Outside, the all-clear whistle was blowing. Two long notes, a space, two more. All clear my butt, thought Gutsy. She closed the door behind them, turned, and leaned against it. Spider and Alethea looked at her and then slowly turned toward the sound of muffled thumps down the hall.
“Who’s making all that racket?” asked Alethea, and then she stopped and jerked upright. “No. No. No way. Don’t tell me that’s . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Yes,” said Gutsy. “They came here and they brought me a present.”
It was a bad attempt at ugly humor, and no one laughed. Alethea closed her eyes for a moment as if fighting back a scream. Her whole body trembled with rage.
“That is beyond sick,” murmured Spider.
The thumping was louder now, and they could hear moans. The three of them stood and listened for almost a full minute.
Then Alethea whispered, “But . . . why?”
Gutsy merely shook her head.
“The woman rider,” said Spider, “the one who stole your machete, did you recognize her at all?”
“I couldn’t see anything but her eyes,” said Gutsy. “If I’ve seen her before, she didn’t make an impression on me. But if I see her again, I’ll know her for sure.”
“If we bury Mama again,” said Spider quietly, “they’re just going to dig her up and bring her right back, aren’t they?” Gutsy said nothing. “Would they do that if she was . . . ?” He didn’t finish the sentence, because they all knew what he meant. Even the Catholics in town had a supply of spikes and a good hammer. Everyone did.
On the couch, Sombra whimpered and all three of them snapped their attention to him. The thumping was one problem. The people who’d done this was another. The dog . . . he needed their help right now.
Alethea fetched the first aid kit from the shelf in the kitchen, hurrying past the shuddering door to Gutsy’s bedroom. Spider began examining the dog’s head and neck. He knew more about animals than the other two, having done a lot of after-school work on farms.
“I need water and clean rags,” he said.
Gutsy fetched them, and she and Alethea stood by and watched as Spider cleaned the blood away with infinite gentleness and care. There was a lump on the top of Sombra’s head and some bloody welts on his neck and right shoulder.
“I think they beat him with something heavy but not sharp,” he said as he studied the wounds. “Like a whip handle, maybe, but with something heavy at the end of it. Weird. It knocked Sombra out, but I don’t think it broke his skull. A concussion, maybe.”
“Poor baby,” said Alethea, stroking the dog’s back and hips. Sombra was still unconscious, though he twitched and whined.
“Is he going to die?” asked Gutsy.
Spider shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve seen farm dogs who were kicked by donkeys and cows worse than this who were okay after a while.” He cleaned the wounds and applied a little of Old Mabel’s Get-You-Right Salve, which was made by one of the women in town. It was an antibacterial ointment that had some herbs in it to reduce swelling and soothe hurts. Everyone used it.
When he was done, they left Sombra to sleep and went down the hall, past the bedroom, and sat at the kitchen table. Gutsy put the kettle on. The pounding never stopped.
