Читать книгу The Saddle Creek Series 5-Book Bundle - Shelley Peterson - Страница 19

9

THE BEAR PIT

ABBY DECIDED TO CLEAN all the tack. She hung the dirty leather bridles, girths, and martingales on the hook that hung from the ceiling in the tack room. She put some warm water in a bucket, opened the large container of saddle soap, and took a clean sponge off the shelf.

Abby took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Please, please, please, let Dancer be all right. And please, please, please, let Cody’s little coyote face peek around the tack room door, proving that everything is as it should be. Cody’s clash with the leg-hold trap and the pack of wild coyotes was too recent. A sense of foreboding grew in Abby’s chest.

She wet the sponge and rubbed it into the saddle soap, creating a thick lather at the top of the container. With speed that came from long practice, she scrubbed the leather with the soapy sponge, then wiped it thoroughly. After soaping and wiping the bridles and saddles, she threw out the water, rinsed out the sponge, packed up the soap, and opened the big jug of saddle oil.

Abby could barely contain herself. Her hands were shaking as she soaked the oil rag with neat’s-foot oil and rubbed it into the leather saddles. As she completed each one, she felt more anxious. Cody was not to be seen, and Dancer had not returned.

Owens threw down his binoculars and, double-barrelled shotgun in hand, began striding down his lawn. A grim smile transformed his rugged face into a sinister mask. The horrendous crash of underbrush had been music to his ears. He’d fooled him. The mighty Dancer had been outwitted by a few branches cleverly placed over a gaping hole in the earth, littered at the bottom with jagged boulders.

Hopefully the wretched animal was now writhing in agony with a broken leg, or better yet, a broken neck. Owens would tell people that he had to put Dancer out of his misery, out of compassion for an injured beast in deathly pain. A mercy killing. Owens’ smile got broader. Now he would finish the stallion off, once and for all. Once Dancer was dead, he could get on with his life. He could put his mind to other things. Like procuring his privacy.

Owens’ valet came panting out of the mansion’s side entrance and called, “Mr. Owens! There you are! I’ve been looking for you!”

Owens abruptly turned to glare at his quivering manservant.

“My apologies, Mr. Owens, but—”

“Walter,” said Owens quietly. He spoke softly but in such a menacing manner that Walter was struck dumb in mid-sentence. “Walter, I’m busy. Can you see that, Walter?”

“Y-yes s-sir,” he stammered. “But you were expecting Mrs. Casey, and you told me to inform you immedi—”

“Yes, I did, Walter. Good boy. Could you show her to the study and pour her a drink? I’ll be along shortly. I have a little business to take care of.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Owens, sir.”

“Samuel, darling!”

Owens turned his head and watched as Helena Casey floated across the lawn toward him. She was wearing a cream linen pant suit with a magenta scoop-necked blouse and matching pumps. Her blond hair was swept up in a glamorous French roll, and her teeth gleamed in her perfectly made-up face. Diamonds glittered at her throat and ears. She took his breath away.

Owens found himself hiding the shotgun behind his back. “Walter, take this,” he ordered under his breath, shoving the weapon at the obedient man.

Dancer can stew in his own juice for a little while, Owens thought savagely, striding up to greet the vision in cream. I have bigger and more delectable fish to fry. Let the creature die slowly, he’s not going anywhere.

Cody began to dig. His right hind leg was still not strong so he put all his weight on the left, and furiously dug with his two front paws. He worked steadily, creating an ever-growing pile of earth behind him.

Dancer was on his back, surrounded by sharp rocks. The hole was deep and it narrowed at the bottom. Dancer’s legs were hidden by thick, leaf-covered broken branches with sharp points, and tangled in long, unyielding vines.

The mighty stallion lay there, stunned. The world was spinning in crazy circles. He couldn’t get his eyes focused. Where was he? His legs scrambled, but to no avail. His head was bleeding and his legs were badly scraped.

Cody dug. Left, right, left, right, left, right. The man was coming to hurt them. He must get the Good Horse out.

Dancer rested. He closed his eyes to stop the spinning.

He slept.

Twenty minutes passed. The pile of earth behind Cody had grown into a small hill. Cody stopped to rest, panting hard. His front paws were bleeding, his muscles spent. He listened intently. No man-noise. He sniffed the air keenly. No man-scent. He looked down at Dancer. The Good Horse wasn’t moving.

Cody slid down a little further. He grabbed a thick branch with his mouth and yanked on it, trying to lug it out of the hole to clear the way. The movement startled the horse, and he started thrashing.

Cody didn’t let go. He tugged and pulled and hauled the branch up. He went back for another. And another. And yet another.

Dancer’s head was beginning to clear. He realized that Abby’s coyote was helping him. He began to understand the animal’s plan. Dancer moved his front right leg. There was no pain. With his teeth he pulled on the vine that twisted around it, and removed it from his leg. He carefully tested his front left. It was sore, but it moved. His hips hurt when he moved his hind legs, but at least Dancer knew that once he could get himself righted, all four legs would support him.

Cody slid down the path he’d dug, into the pit. The steep wall was now a slope, and Cody thought that Dancer should be able to walk out. He sniffed at Dancer’s head. There was a lot of blood. Cody couldn’t understand why Dancer still lay there. He yipped.

Dancer flinched at the noise so close to his ears. He nickered, twisting his neck first to the left, then to the right.

Cody showed him how to get out. He bounded easily up the side of the hole, spun around, then stood looking down at him. He yipped again, and wagged his tail.

Dancer threw his head forward and paddled his legs. No good. He couldn’t find a way to get his feet under him. He was like a turtle on its back. He was helpless.

Cody froze. Footsteps coming. Man steps.

He slid down beside Dancer and whined softly, pushing him urgently with his nose.

Dancer tried again.

The tack was cleaned and oiled. The time was up. Abby jumped on her bike and raced across to the farmhouse. She pounded on Christine’s kitchen door, opened it, and hollered, “Mrs. James! I’m going to look for Dancer! Bye!” and she sped down the lane.

Abby thought fast. If Cody isn’t here, he must be with Dancer, who must be in trouble. When Cody goes travelling, he takes the path past Wick Farm, Owens’ and the Caseys’. Abby headed north.

Christine rushed out of her office. “Abby, wait! I’m coming!” She threw open the kitchen door and looked outside. No sign of Abby. Christine grabbed her car keys and ran for the car, uncertain of where to go.

Cody whined with fear. The Bad Man was coming. He was already down the hill and entering the woods. Very soon he would be at the hole. Cody looked down into the hole. Dancer was still on his back, resting again. Maybe there was no hope.

Cody slid down the side and nudged Dancer. Get up get up get up! The exhausted, injured beast didn’t move.

Cody’s ears picked up another sound. His Abby’s spinning machine! He could hear it coming toward them. No! She must not come! The man would hurt her, too. Cody leapt up to the top and looked for her.

Suddenly, with a huge effort, the valiant stallion arched his back, leaning all his weight on his bloodied head. He tucked his hocks under him as best as he could. With one mighty thrust he propelled his body forward, shoulders finally breaking free from the boulders. He sat on his haunches like a dog. With his front feet on the ground, he wiggled his back end until he had it positioned properly over his hind legs. With another great effort, Dancer threw his weight up and forward. He stood.

Cody vibrated with impatience. Let’s go let’s go let’s go! His Abby was coming, and she shouldn’t be here when the man arrived. He listened. The man was getting very close, too close. Cody’s sharp ears knew he was only thirty seconds away if he continued to walk at the same pace. If he walked any faster, there was no time left at all.

Dancer stood still, gathering his strength. His head was spinning and his eyes were out of focus. The cut on his head had been reopened by his efforts, and blood was running down his face.

Cody hopped from leg to leg. His senses told him to run from danger; his loyalty kept him with Dancer. Dancer, right-side up but deep in the hole, shook his head and snorted.

Now now now! urged Cody.

Abby came racing from the direction of the road and appeared around the trees, panting hard as she pedalled her bike along the bumpy path.

“Cody!” she called, comforted and elated to see him.

In the same instant, Samuel Owens came crashing through the woods from the other side, double-barrelled shotgun at his side.

Cody stood in the middle, high on the mound of dug-out earth. He threw back his head and howled.

Owens raised the shotgun defensively.

Abby screeched her brakes to a halt.

Christine had driven back and forth along the road twice now. She had little idea of what might be happening, but she wanted to be at hand, just in case.

Suddenly, off the road directly beside her, the unmistakable sound of a gun shattered the peace. The hair all over her body stood on end. She stopped breathing. Slowing the car, Christine pulled over to the side of the road. She put it in park and waited, trying to reason out a course of action and fearing the worst.

When the shotgun came up, Cody dove for Owens’ leg, throwing him off balance. The resounding roar momentarily deafened them all, but the buckshot flew harmlessly into the treetops.

Furiously, Owens began to hit Cody with the barrel of the gun. The coyote’s teeth were imbedded in Owens’ calf and he was not about to release his jaws. Owens aimed the gun, prepared to empty the remaining shot into the small grey animal. There were more cartridges in his pocket for Dancer.

Dancer was galvanized by the tremendous noise. He shook his head, clearing away the last remnants of dizziness. He gathered himself onto his powerful haunches and sprang up the side of the pit in one stride. He sized up the situation and took immediate action. His left hind leg shot out and thumped Owens sharply in the chest.

Owens’ mouth formed an “O.” Cody let go of Owens’ leg and dashed to Abby, where he positioned himself squarely between his idol and danger.

Dancer gauged his target perfectly, striking again with his left hind, this time at Owens’ abdomen. Doubling over in pain, Owens tumbled into the very pit that he had dug for Dancer. As he fell, the second shell exploded, the sound muffled by the walls of earth.

Abby stood immobilized. She looked at Dancer. Magnificent, incredible Dancer. He stood tall and bloodied, head up, ears forward, nostrils flaring. His gaze met Abby’s. “Good boy, Dancer. Good boy,” she whispered. Dancer appeared to nod, then, in the blink of an eye, disappeared along the path toward home.

Cody grabbed her hand with his mouth and began to pull. “You’re a good boy, too, Cody. I’m coming, I’m coming.”

Christine sat rigid in her car, hands gripping the steering wheel in a death vice. Two shots. She didn’t have her cell phone with her to call the police. She’d have to go home to call, but she didn’t want to leave. Should she go into the woods? Was Abby in there? She didn’t want to rush in to face a person with a gun, but she couldn’t just sit here and do nothing.

Her dilemma was solved as Dancer, bloody but sound, shot out onto the road in front of her car. With hardly a glance at her, he abruptly turned and galloped down the gravel road toward home.

Abby was next, frantically pedalling her bicycle, followed by Cody, blood dripping from his mouth.

Christine threw the car into drive and sped after them. Pulling up beside Abby, she hollered, “Abby! What happened?” Abby’s frightened face looked back at her. She was breathing hard, and spoke in gasps while continuing to pedal down the road. “Oh my gosh, Mrs. James. It’s Mr. Owens! I don’t know if he’s hurt or dead, or what. He has a shotgun and Dancer kicked him into the pit and the gun went off and we ran. I couldn’t bear to look.”

“Abby, stop your bike. I have to know what happened.”

Abby did what she was told and unfolded the story as coherently as she could manage.

When she was finished, Christine thought for a moment. “Go up to Hogscroft and stay there. Call the vet. I’ll be there shortly.” She turned her car around. “Oh, Abby! Before you do anything else, call the police and send them here! I’ll wait by the road to show them the location of the pit.”

She parked beside the path. As the minutes passed, Christine grew more and more restless. She couldn’t just sit here while a human being, even a despicable man like Owens, lay injured and needing medical help. He may have accidentally shot himself. Since Dancer had kicked him in the chest and stomach, Christine imagined internal bleeding, cardiac arrest, hemorrhage, punctured lungs. Finally, unable to wait any longer, Christine got out of the car and walked briskly down the path.

Christine reached the huge hole in the ground. The woods were silent. Not even a bird peeped.

Is Owens already dead? She could hardly dare to look, but she knew she must. Now that she saw the depth of the hole, she wondered about broken bones or a fractured skull. She listened intently. Not a sound.

Christine picked up a leafy branch and waved it over the mouth of the pit. Nothing. No gunfire, no yelling, no cry for help. Nothing.

Gathering her courage, Christine knelt at the edge and looked over. It was dark inside. She peered intently, trying to make out the shape of a body. She saw nothing.

“Samuel?” she called. “Mr. Owens?” No answer.

Duty done, she rose to her feet and began to hurry back to her car. But it bothered her that she couldn’t see the bottom of the hole clearly. She turned, thinking that she should do a complete search. She didn’t want to hear later that she’d left a badly injured man to die.

Christine slid down into the hole and carefully looked around. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, she marvelled that Dancer could ever have gotten himself out. The boulders were large and rugged, and she could see where his steel shoes had scraped and scuffed as he’d tried to free himself. Owens was definitely gone.

Just as she began to climb out, a large shovelful of stony earth hit her on the head.

“Hey!” Christine yelled. “Stop that!”

Another load of earth came down, followed quickly by another, and another. More than one person was up there, filling the hole.

“Hey! Stop it! Who’s there?”

A rock hit her on the head and she lost consciousness.

Police officers Milo Murski and John Bains pulled their cruiser up to the barn and parked it beside the veterinarian’s truck. They got out. A very agitated Abby emerged from the barn.

“Abby Malone!” Milo greeted her warmly. Milo and Abby had become friends two years earlier when she’d solved the Bosco mystery, releasing her father from jail and putting Colonel Kenneth Bradley behind bars, where he still remained.

“Mr. Murski, Mr. Bains! I’m so glad to see you! We’ve got to go!”

“We got the call just a few minutes ago. We came as fast as we could.”

“As fast as we could, considering we were making a drug arrest.” John Bains interjected dourly.

Alan Masters, the vet, strode out of the barn to his truck. “I’ll finish up soon and be off, Abby. You go ahead. Dancer should be fine.” He opened the hatch and found the items he needed.

“Thanks, Dr. Masters.” The experienced equine doctor would clean Dancer’s wounds, give him penicillin and painkillers, and stitch the gash on his head.

“I’ll change the bandages tomorrow morning at eight, Abby, and take a look at how his wounds are healing.”

Abby answered, nodding, “Okay, I’ll meet you here.”

“Good day, Milo, John.” Alan greeted the policemen gravely as he returned to his work in the barn.

“Good day to you, Alan,” responded Milo as John nodded.

“Where’s that sidekick of yours, Wile E. Coyote?” inquired Milo with a friendly smile.

“You mean Cody? He’s around, but we have to hurry. Samuel Owens dug a pit—I need to show you; it’s a long story. Can I tell it on the way?”

Milo ground his teeth. “Any story concerning that man is a long story, and it rarely has a happy ending.” He opened the back door of the cruiser. “Hop in, Abby. Take us to the scene.”

Abby filled them in as they drove. She tried to contain her impatience as the cruiser approached the path. They saw Christine’s car parked at the side of the road.

“How long has she been here?” asked Milo.

“A long time. I’m not wearing my watch, but I’d guess half an hour.”

“She should have waited for us,” muttered Bains darkly.

“Abby,” requested Milo firmly, “you stay in the car. Don’t leave under any circumstances. And keep the doors locked. You hear?”

Abby nodded. She felt a chill go through her body. “You think something’s happened to Mrs. James, don’t you?”

The officers looked at each other. Milo spoke. “We’ll look after this, Abby. Just stay put so we don’t have to worry about you.”

Abby could hardly sit still, but she stayed in the car, watching the path. Her eye caught Cody’s tail as it rose above the roadside weeds. His inquiring face popped up to look at her.

Abby tried to open the window to reassure her coyote, but the car was off and the electric windows wouldn’t budge. She opened the door just a crack.

Scraping sounds filled her ears. And sounds of rocks hitting metal. Shovelling noises, Abby deduced. What was happening?

One little peek couldn’t hurt, Abby reasoned, as she got out of the cruiser. Followed by Cody, Abby tiptoed into the woods along the path.

It was almost seven o’clock. Auditions were about to start at the Wick barn, now officially called The Stonewick Playhouse.

Joy Featherstone and Robert Wick had completely transformed the theatre. The old, decrepit barn looked remarkable. The auditorium had been scrubbed clean. The walls were painted three shades of mossy green; the walls darkest, the wainscotting highlighted, and the trim the lightest. The chairs had been fixed and re-covered in a durable velvet of deep plum. A grand new purple curtain hung across the proscenium arch, sweeping the newly sanded and polished stage floor. The original sconces and overhead lights had been touched up and rewired, retaining the romantic atmosphere of old, and the rusted stage lights had been replaced by modern ones, all hooked into a state-of-the-art computerized lighting board. The smells of cut lumber, fresh paint, and new fabric intermingled with the exciting aromas of adrenalin and greasepaint.

Joy and Robert had set up a station for themselves four rows from the front of the stage in the centre of the auditorium. A little table with a light sat over the two seats in front to facilitate their note-taking, and their seats had been raised to a level where they could comfortably use the table. On the stage, the organist of the Inglewood Church sat ready at a grand piano to accompany anyone who wished his services. Sitting along the outside seats were dozens of nervous-looking people, all waiting for their turn to audition.

Among those people sat Lucy, saving the seat beside her. Every few minutes she looked around, studying the entrances. She hoped that Abby would show up soon, but she already felt a little better. Her spirits had lifted as she studied the crowd, for over there, near the back, were Sam and Leslie Morris. And there was Annie Payne sitting with Pam Masters. Even Leo Rodrigues and his mother had shown up. Everyone was coming to audition for the new playhouse.

All these people, and how many parts? Suddenly, Lucy felt deflated. She didn’t have a chance. She thought over what she’d decided to do. She was going to sing her favourite nursery song “The Three Bears” because she remembered all the words, and recite “The Tyger” by William Blake, a poem she’d learned for school. But even though she’d been quite confident of her choices before coming, they seemed more and more inappropriate. Lucy wanted to get up and leave before she embarrassed herself beyond salvage. “Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, In the forests of the night . . .” The more she thought about the movements she’d rehearsed to go with it, the more demoralized she became. She’d never acted before. She’d never even auditioned before. For sure she’d be terrible. Lucy stood up to go.

A bluish-grey glow three seats away caught her eye. Could it be Abby’s ghost? she wondered. Goosebumps prickled her arms. It must be. He’s really real. She wasn’t making it up!

Lucy looked at the people around her. Nobody seemed to notice the odd light but her. He showed himself to me. She thought for a moment. He wanted me to see him. He must want me to stay! She looked back at the ghost. He was gone. She shivered, but resolved to do her audition. She would forget about the live people watching. She’d play to Abby’s ghost.

The auditions began at seven o’clock sharp. Everyone hushed when Robert Wick stood up, and their eyes followed him anxiously as he strode onto the stage. The great hall was silent. Mr. Wick began to speak, tones mellow and full, words carrying easily to the back of the house.

“Welcome to the first auditions of The Stonewick Playhouse. Let me introduce you first to my friend and theatre partner, Mrs. Joy Featherstone.” Joy stood and smiled graciously. Her presence was somehow reassuring, calming the fears of a good many people.

“My name is Robert Wick, and tonight we’ll have some fun. Intentionally, we called the auditions with little warning. We didn’t want to give you time to get yourselves into a stew.” Everybody laughed. “Relax, and remember, you’re all in the same boat. Tonight we want to see you and figure out how to use your particular talent, which, we have no doubt, will astonish us.” Again, the entire auditorium laughed, perhaps a little over-enthusiastically. “Let us begin. We want everyone here to get a part.” He looked down at his notes. “Please take the stage, Mr. Ed Scaff.”

As a short, roly-poly man with very little hair and a smile from ear to ear sprinted up the steps to the stage, Lucy assumed that Abby had chickened out. It wasn’t like her, though, to promise to come and not turn up. Lucy was disappointed. She took a deep breath to curb her nerves, remembered the ghost for good luck, and waited for her turn. Resting his bruised body in his favourite chair, Samuel Owens barked his orders. “Run! Don’t dawdle, you ungrateful wretch! When I say I want more ice in my scotch, I want it now!” Walter was back in the den with ice in a small crystal bucket before Owens had finished his tirade. Using silver tongs, he dropped three cubes into the cut-glass tumbler and watched anxiously to see if Owens wanted more.

“Take it out! Two cubes only! You are such an idiot, Walter. Get me another scotch. I can’t drink this.”

The telephone beside Owens’ chair rang. Walter rushed to answer it.

“Get out, Walter! Don’t touch my phone!” Reaching to answer it, Owens groaned. His ribs hurt every time he moved. That cursed horse, he thought, remembering the impact of Dancer’s hooves.

“Owens here,” he growled into the mouthpiece.

“Payment’s due. Look outside your window.”

Owens turned his head sharply to see the figure of a stocky man, facing him with a cell phone at his ear.

“Payment in cash, or I don’t leave.”

“I need proof that the hole is filled. I want no trace left.”

“Go look, then.”

“Okay, okay,” Owens grumbled, flinching at the prospect of moving his aching body from his chair. “I’ll trust you this time. I’ll want you for another job soon. Wait one minute.” Owens put down the receiver. “Walter! Get in here!”

At the hole, Abby hid behind a thick maple tree and watched breathlessly. Secured to a big sugar maple tree were two men with resentful eyes. Milo Murski and John Bains had removed their police uniform shirts and were digging furiously. Their heads were visible above the ground, and Abby watched as shovelsful of earth flew over the lip.

“We didn’t know anyone was down there!” yelled one of the handcuffed men.

“Tell it to the judge,” snapped John Bains.

“We’re here, Christine. Don’t try to move yet. Take small breaths. You’ll be all right.” Milo spoke steadily in a calm voice.

Mrs. James? Is she down there? Abby was alarmed.

“Okay, John. I think we’re ready. Easy now.”

Christine James moaned. Then she started to cough. Abby couldn’t see what was happening.

Suddenly the top of Christine’s head emerged. Her body followed, completely supported by John Bains and Milo Murski. They carried her out, one at each side. She was covered in dirt, with her eyes, mouth, and nose black with mud. Her hair held clumps of earth where the blood from the blow to her head had hardened.

Abby’s hands flew to her mouth. She stumbled backward, then turned and ran to the cruiser. She got in and sat quietly. An ambulance pulled up and stopped at the roadside. Its engine idled while two men took a stretcher out of the back and hurried into the woods.

The moment Hilary James got the message from her stepfather, Rory, she called Sandy. He’d also talked to his father, and within an hour they were on the last flight of the day from Montreal to Toronto.

“She was buried alive, Sandy. It must have been horrible.”

“My dad’s been with her the whole time, Hilary,” Sandy said reassuringly. “He says there are no broken bones, no internal injuries, only bruising and a slight concussion. She’s going to be fine.”

“I know, Sandy. You keep telling me that, but until I see her myself, I’m going to worry. That’s just the way I am.”

“And that’s just the way I like you. I only wish I could make you feel better.”

“I feel better having you with me. Thanks for coming.”

Sandy smiled. “Dad’s meeting us at the airport, and we’ll go straight up to the Orangeville hospital.”

“Can’t he stay with Mom? We could take a taxi.”

“You know my dad. He insisted. He said your mom needed a break from him anyway.”

“Well someone should stay with her tonight. She’ll have nightmares, I’m sure of it. I’ll ask the doctor to have a cot brought in for me. I can’t leave her alone.”

“So the worm has turned.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That the child is now mothering the mother.”

“I guess that’s true.” Hilary thought about it for a minute then asked, “Did you talk to your dad about Dancer’s condition?”

“Not much. I know nothing you don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll feel better after I see him, too. Dr. Masters told me he’ll be okay, but a crack on the head like that could be serious if it gets infected.”

“If Dr. Masters says he’ll be okay, he’ll be okay. He’s known Dancer a long time. Now, try to get a little rest. It’s going to be a long night.”

Hilary rested her head on Sandy’s strong shoulder. Not for the first time, she felt lucky to have him in her life.