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Mama coming back as a monster last night tore the scab off any chance of healing. The shovel marks and the knowledge that someone had done this rubbed salt in the wounds.
Now all Gutsy had were the memories of who and what she had lost.
And the mysteries.
Take great care . . . the hunters of rats are coming.
The hunters of rats. The rat catchers.
Rat catchers?
Mama had said it with such force, such certainty, that it seemed to lift the words, crazy as they were, out of the well of sickness and delirium.
The Rat Catchers. She made it definite, like it was the name of a gang or group.
“Oh, Mama,” cried Gutsy, caving forward and hammering the mound of grave dirt with her fists. “I hate you for leaving me alone.”
5
IT WAS A DOG THAT snapped her out of it.
Gutsy heard a single, short bark, and instantly she was back in the present, eyes snapping open, hand snatching up her machete as she rose, pivoting and dropping into a defensive crouch with the blade angled in front of her.
The dog stood twenty feet away. Dusty gray, skinny, its body crisscrossed with scars old and new, with a studded leather collar around its neck and a length of frayed rope trailing a dozen feet behind it. The eyes were the color of wood smoke, and Gutsy could see that it was a coydog—a half-breed of coyote and German shepherd.
It stared at her with frightened eyes. Its dry tongue licked at cracked lips.
Gutsy used her free hand to wipe the tears away and clear her eyes. Behind her, Gordo struck the ground with his iron hooves and gave a shake of his big head. Gutsy heard the high, plaintive call of a carrion bird, and she glanced up to see a dozen vultures circling the spot where she and the dog stood. Whether they were drawn by the silent form wrapped in sheets in the back of the cart or by the dog, who looked more than three-quarters dead himself, Gutsy couldn’t tell. The moment stretched as she and the animal studied each other.
“Not going to hurt you if you don’t try and hurt me,” said Gutsy.
The coydog looked at her warily. It moved nervously and she saw that it was a male.
“You look like crap, boy,” said Gutsy. “You got any bites on you?”
The dog cocked his head sideways as if considering those words. Gutsy saw that there was blood dried black around a deep cut on his neck below the thick leather collar. She tightened her grip on the machete. Dogs couldn’t become los muertos, as far as she knew, but the world kept changing and it never changed for the better. There were living-dead wild hogs and stories about other kinds of animals that had crossed over and crossed right back again. Father Esteban said he saw a donkey who was dead but walking around. Spider and his foster-sister, Alethea, swore they’d seen a dead puma chase down a deer and kill it. Old Mr. Urrea said that he’d seen a bunch of los muertos gibbons in the San Antonio Zoo. The world was broken, so nothing could be taken for granted.
The coydog took a tentative step forward, wobbling and uncertain. He whimpered a little and stood there, trembling. Gutsy kept her weapon ready, even though the pitiful sight of the animal twisted a knife in her heart. The long scars on the dog’s back and sides looked like whip marks; and the marks on his face were from dog bites. No doubt about it. Spider used to have an old pit bull who had the same kind of scars, remnants from dogfights. It made Gutsy angry and confused to think that anyone would want to make dogs fight each other, sometimes to the death. Wasn’t there already enough pain and death in the world? People, she thought—and not for the first time—were often cruel and stupid.
The coydog took another step, and Gutsy held her ground. The animal was maybe fifty pounds and she was ninety, and a lot of it was lean muscle. She knew how fast she was and how skilled she was with the machete.
“Don’t make me do something bad here, dog,” she said.
The coydog whined again.
He took one more step . . . and then his eyes rolled high and white and he fell over and lay still.
Gutsy squatted down, the machete across her knees, and waited. Patience and observation were important to her. She hated doing anything without thinking it through. Even mercy shouldn’t be allowed to run faster than common sense.
She watched the dog’s ribs, saw the steady rise and fall, the slight shudder with each breath. The birds circled lower, their shadows drifting across the graves and across the dog’s body. Gutsy didn’t care about them, either. Birds wouldn’t attack her; and even if they did, she had her weapon.
The dog continued to breathe—badly, with effort—but it was all he did.
Gutsy straightened and walked in a big circle around the animal. Twice. The first time she looked outward, making sure that the dog was not part of some elaborate and nasty trick. The second time she looked at the dog, watching for signs of movement. Dogs didn’t play tricks as clever as this, not even smart dogs.
Finally she went to the cart, fetched a bottle of water and her first aid kit, gave Gordo a reassuring pat on the neck, then went back and knelt by the dog. She put on a pair of canvas work gloves before she touched him, though. Then she checked him over. As soon as she touched him, the dusty gray color of his coat changed and she realized that he was actually a dark-haired dog covered in ash. She brushed a lot of it away, revealing a coat that was almost as black as shadows. The coat made him look heavier than he was.
“You don’t have a lot of meat on you, do you?” she asked. “Los muertos wouldn’t get more than a snack off you.”
