Grayson visibly flinched as Ozzie tucked his head down and sadly turned away, looking as though he was walking the Green Mile back toward the farmhouse, as a chorus of “Awww’s” came at Grayson from the back of the truck.
Tina and Tarra both already loved the dog and couldn’t stand to see him sad.
Gabby and Graysie stood with their hands over their eyes, squinting down the long drive at the scene. “Come on, Ozzie, come here, boy!” they yelled.
Ozzie stopped his trek and looked back over his shoulder at Grayson, hoping he’d change his mind. His big brown eyes stared sadly at his master. “Go on.” Grayson pointed again. “Go home.”
To Gabby he yelled, “Give him a whole strip of my beef jerky, Gabby.”
“Want a treat, Ozzie? Come on! I’ll give you a big treat!” she yelled.
Ozzie’s spirit lifted and he punched the throttle, running toward Gabby and Graysie in excitement.
“Go, go, go,” Grayson said, jumping back into the truck, “Before he looks back again. Hang on, ladies!”
Jake punched it, knowing Grayson couldn’t bear to tell Ozzie no again. If the dog looked back one more time, Grayson would give in to his soulful eyes.
And that could be a mistake.
17
Elmer reached for the shotty, placing it between his legs, as he slowed the tractor down. So close to home, and now this. Irritably, he harrumphed.
A bale of hay slid off the top of the stack, disappearing into the wagon, and Emma’s head popped up. “What’s wrong, Elmer?” she yelled across the gap.
“Git your head down, girl!” He waved his hand backward at her.
Emma ignored him, staring out onto the road before them. “What’s going on? Where are we?”
“Looks like we may have company. I said git your head down! And be quiet.”
Emma ducked and a second later the hay bale slid back into place.
Elmer rolled the tractor to a stop in front of a road block. In front of his path, two abandoned cars had been parked horizontally, one overlapping the other. He looked left… too many trees to get around that way. He looked right. A steep ditch filled with large rocks blocked that way; he’d never get through that with the wagon.
Not a sound could be heard, other than the tree crickets and katydids, chirping in anticipation of the coming dusk.
He waited several long moments, the tractor grumbling loudly and impatiently beneath him.
No signs of life, but something wasn’t right.
Finally, he put it in neutral, and climbed down, taking his shotty with him. He stood still beside the tractor rumbling a moment, and looked around suspiciously. Still no signs of anyone. He whispered to himself, “Gird your loins, you old fool. You can’t stand here all day.”
He stretched his stiff legs, looking over his shoulder the way they’d come. No one there either, he irritably stomped over to the two cars, hoping to find keys, and praying at least one of them had enough gas to start. He’d simply move one out of the way, and push the other, if he had to.
He leaned into an old-model Cavalier and not seeing the keys, stepped back and opened the door.
Clumsily, he sat on the seat, and folded one leg into the car, his left foot still on pavement and his left hand holding the shotty outside the door, while his right hand swept under the edge of the seats, looking for a key ring.
Nothing.
He poked his head back up and looked around.
No one.
He checked the glove compartment, the console, and over the sun-visor.
Still, no keys.
Tiredly, and without ease, he climbed out of the car.
He walked to the second car, looking over his shoulder to check on Emma on the way. When he turned back, he jerked to a stop and yelped, pulling his head back in a jerky movement, away from the barrel of the rifle he was now staring into.
“Heavens to Bessy, you scared the dickens out of me!” he exclaimed. “Put that down, before you hurt someone.”
The pudgy man, dressed in an open flannel shirt and dirty Carhart pants, laughed, and teetered back and forth on his feet. A bald, round head glimmered with sweat and his teeth were like rotten fence posts lined his mouth. “That’s what it’s for, Old Timer. Drop the shotgun and hold still.”
The wind blew, sending a beer-scented wave of air across Elmer’s face, tickling the tufts of white hair poking out from his cap. The man’s gun wavered back and forth. He was drunk.
Elmer ignored his command and gave his best eye roll—he learned that from the teenagers in the bible study he sometimes watched Edith teach—and turned to go. Grumpily, he said, “You need to move one of these cars out of the way. I aim to go through there.”
He tried to walk casually, his shotgun still in hand, pointed up. His finger was way too far from the trigger, but he feared what would happen if he choked up on it. His heart thumped loudly and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He forced his shoulders to stay down away from around his ears.
“I said hold still,” the man yelled at his back. “One more step and I’m going to light you up, old man.”
Elmer stopped in his tracks and held his hands up in the air, one still holding the shotty. “For what?” he yelled in a crotchety voice. “I ain’t done nothing to ya. Just let me pass.”
A new voice rang out. “You gotta pay a toll to use our road,” he said, followed by a drunken laugh.
Elmer turned to see two men lurch out of the woods toward his tractor, barely able to find their feet. One wore a beat-up cowboy hat and dusty jeans, his belly hanging over the waistband.
The other was skinny as a rake, his pencil neck sticking up through the wide collar of his T-shirt like a golf tee.
Both men dangerously carried rifles. The skinny one stumbled, grabbing his buddy’s shirt with one hand. His buddy swatted behind him, but pulled him up the side of the ditch onto the road anyway, laughing all the way.
These men were trouble, and that trouble was headed right toward Emma.
He should’ve made her stay back at her sister’s farm. Durn crazy women nowadays, thinking they’re tough as men. At least he’d been right to pass her stop without telling her. If she’d been out here alone on that bike, she’d probably be good as dead right now. If not these men, there were plenty of others. And he’d seen times like this before. Men’s base nature came out when the going got tough. Either they stood up, and became better. Or they acted out—and got up to no good.
These three were no good.
The blood pumped wildly into his old veins. “Wait a doggone minute.” He thrust a hand into his pocket, coming out with a pocketknife, some change, and crumpled twenty-dollar bill. “This is all I got. Believe you me…” He held it out in the palm of his hand.
The men continued toward the wagon. “Keep it, old fool. You spend it,” one of them called out, bringing peals of laughter from the other two.
Elmer stomped his foot. “Hey! Y’all hear me? This is it. Ain’t nothing up there but hay, and I know you don’t give a hoot about some dried grass. My money’s over here, and I have a can of Skoal, too. Barely used!”
The man behind him snickered. “Money’s no good anymore, old man. You must have something else… I’m thinking food and water. You don’t look hungry. And what about fuel? You wouldn’t be out here without some more fuel for that tractor. How far do you live from here anyways?”
Elmer’s mind raced. The house was less than ten miles from here, the way the crow flies. If he admitted that, they might want to follow him home. He couldn’t have these animals around his Edith. He avoided the question. “You don’t look hungry either, pardner. But that doesn’t mean you’re not. I got a dripple of water up near my seat, but I don’t have any food.” His stomach growled loudly in agreement.