Disappearance at Hangman's Bluff (2 page)

Two

I
don't know how long
I lay there before the phone started to ring, and I made myself get up and answer it. “Abbey?” a familiar voice said.

I recognized the deep, reedy voice of our neighbor, Judge Gator. Judge wasn't his real first name, and Gator wasn't his real last name. But he was a retired federal judge, and he'd gotten the nickname Gator when he was still the district attorney. Back then the local newspaper had written an article saying Poindexter DeSaussure (that's his real name) was so tough on criminals that a bad guy might just as well put his leg in a big old gator's mouth as to try and get away from him. He had a voice that always reminded me of pipe smoke and cool evenings and the stories he would tell as we sat together on the joggling board on the front porch of his house. Hearing him on the phone partly snapped me out of my funk.

“Are you in Michigan?” I asked, because it was August and Judge Gator always went up north in early May and didn't come back until October.

“No, I came back early because Yemassee is going to have puppies and I wanted them born here on Leadenwah.”

I'm no fool. I was pretty sure Daddy had asked the judge to call me. But I didn't care, because hearing the word
puppies
grabbed my attention. The judge went on to tell me that he'd driven into Charleston that morning for a meeting that looked like it was going to run a lot longer than he'd expected. Since it was a very hot day, he asked if I might be willing to go over to his place and check on Yemassee and make sure she had plenty of water.

I said of course I would, and as soon as I hung up I called Bee. She had never met Judge Gator, as he had already gone up north for the summer by the time she moved to Reward, but she lit up right away when I told her about the puppies. We met at the barn ten minutes later, and we saddled our ponies and headed over to the judge's place.

Judge Gator lived on the neighboring plantation, Belle Vista, which his family had owned for hundreds of years, ever since his ancestors fled France and came to South Carolina. He lived there all by himself ever since his wife had died a couple years earlier. Even though we were neighbors, it still took ten minutes of riding down several dusty trails with the sun beating down on our heads just to get to his fence line, and then another ten minutes once we were through the gate. In case you've never been to South Carolina in late August, we're talking
hot.
Like fry-an-egg-on-a-stone-you-set-out-in-the-sun hot, so by the time we got to Judge Gator's house, Bee and I were both sweating hard, right along with our ponies.

I had known Judge Gator ever since I was a little girl, and I had known his dog, Yemassee, ever since she was a puppy, and now I was excited to think that she was going to have puppies of her own. Daddy used to say that Judge Gator had become a lonely man since his wife died, and I thought it might make him feel better to have a bunch of little animals to care for.

Yemassee was a Boykin spaniel, which happens to be the state dog of South Carolina. Boykins are celebrated for their loyalty; wonderful personalities; beautiful brown, curly coats; and brilliant gold-and-amber eyes. They are even more prized for being amazing bird dogs. Boykins aren't exactly rare, but just like beautiful pianos or fancy cars, they are valued by their owners. And just like any other special thing, the good ones are worth a whole bunch of money.

Yemassee was more than prized; she was adored. Judge Gator liked to say that she was “the best of the best.” Sometimes, after Daddy and I had eaten one of his famous fried-chicken dinners, the judge would tell stories of hunting with Yemassee—doves, wild turkeys, and ducks in South Carolina; ruffed grouse in North Carolina and Pennsylvania; pheasants in North Dakota; and chukar partridge in Idaho. In other words, Yemassee was a dog that could pretty much do it all. My father agreed, and he had been bird hunting all his life. He said a dog that could hunt like Yemassee was as rare as hen's teeth, and if you know anything about hens, you know they don't have teeth.

When Bee and I got to the house, we tied our ponies by the back door, where the judge kept a big water trough in the shade of a huge live oak. We let the horses drink and went into the kitchen to find Yemassee, but strangely she didn't bark or come to see who was there.

“Yemassee,” I called.

“You think she could be having her puppies already?” Bee asked, when she still didn't come.

A shot of excitement ran up my back as we started to search from room to room. The judge's house was old, and there were lots of creaky floorboards. Everywhere we looked we saw shelves full of books and more books stacked on tables. The air smelled like a combination of musky old stuff, damp dog, pipe tobacco, and gun oil.

“Check the closets and under the beds,” Bee said. “Maybe she made a nest.”

We looked everywhere, but no dog. Finally we had only one more room to check, the big sunroom at the far end of the house. When I looked in there, I noticed one of the sliding glass doors standing open a few inches, and I had my answer.

“Where do you think she is?” Bee asked.

“She's gone hunting,” I said.

Bee screwed up her face and looked at me. “Huh?”

Sometimes I forget that Bee moved here just a couple months ago from the Atlanta suburbs. She doesn't know much about dogs or hunting.

“Dogs never understand when they get left home for their own good. Sure as anything, she watched Judge Gator get dressed to go into town this morning, and the moment he drove away, she ran around the house until she found a door that wasn't shut tight enough.”

“How do you know?”

I laughed. “Because she's done it before, and Boykins have heads like rocks.”

“Meaning they're stubborn?” Bee asked.

“Yeah.”

“Takes one to know one, I guess.”

“Aren't you the comedian.”

“Truth hurts, girl.”

I looked at Bee and tried to think up some smart comment, but then I gave up and laughed. She was totally right. The fact was, Yemassee would do whatever Judge Gator asked, but if anybody but Judge Gator called her and expected her to come, they'd best have a big piece of steak in their hand. That's just the kind of dog she was, and I guessed Bee was saying that was the kind of girl I was, too. I would do pretty much anything to make Daddy or Bee or Grandma Em happy, but other people—like my teachers—would say I was as hardheaded as a piece of wood and usually did exactly as I pleased. Maybe it did take one to know one.

Bee and I walked out the sliding glass door and looked toward the shadiest parts of the yard, but we didn't see a dog. I called Yemassee's name several times.

“You think she went far?” Bee asked.

I shrugged. “Hard to say. Girl dogs don't usually wander, but Yemassee's different. The judge says she brings home souvenirs from all over Leadenwah.”

“What kind of souvenirs?”

“Bones, mainly, but one time she brought home a bridle. Another time some people must have been skinny-dipping in the creek because she brought home somebody's boxer shorts.”

Bee laughed. “I'd like to have seen that.”

“We need a treat,” I said, walking back inside and getting some bacon from the fridge.

Outside again I shouted Yemassee's name and this time called out, “Treat!” just to make sure she knew there would be a reward. After another minute we went back through the house and out onto the front porch. I called out, “Treat,” in that direction, and a minute later Bee pointed down the drive. “Look.”

I saw something in the distance coming slowly up the allée of live oaks. For a second I wasn't certain it was even a dog, but as the shape drew closer I could make out Yemassee's dusty brown fur.

She was over a hundred yards off, and it looked like she was half dragging, half carrying something that was long and awkward, because she would stop every fifteen or twenty yards, drop it, then pick it up again.

“Looks like she dug up a dinosaur bone,” Bee joked.

“Must be quite a prize,” I said with a laugh. Yemassee looked so dusty and tired that I guessed she must have taken a long jaunt to get that thing.

Then another motion caught my eye. A vehicle was coming up the driveway at a fast enough clip to throw a big rooster tail of dust. At first I thought it might be Judge Gator rushing back from Charleston, but when it got closer I knew it wasn't, because Judge Gator had an old Mercedes station wagon, and this was a white pickup. The driver had to be an idiot, because even from where we stood on the porch I could hear the wheels slamming hard in the ruts.

“That truck's going to hit Yemassee!” Bee cried.

I stared, realizing she was right. The Boykin spaniel was in the middle of the drive, and the truck was coming up on her real fast. It appeared that the driver didn't see her. I opened my mouth to scream, but at the last second the driver slammed on his brakes and slid to a stop just behind Yemassee.

Two men jumped out of the truck. I couldn't see them well because of all the road dust they had kicked up, but the driver looked sort of short and thick. The passenger was taller and a good bit skinnier.

“Here, doggy,” one of the men called, but not the way a person calls a dog. It was more of a
I'm going to beat you when I get my hands on you
voice.

Something about the man's tone sent a shiver down my back, and I grabbed Bee's shoulder and made her squat down with me behind a couple big pots of geraniums.

Yemassee totally ignored the man, and both of them started to chase her. Right away I realized that they had to be after the thing she was carrying. I would have laughed at the sight if the men hadn't looked so angry.

As we watched, the fat man stayed behind Yemassee, while the skinnier man veered off to one side and ran sort of parallel to her. He seemed to be trying to head her off so she couldn't reach the house.

Yemassee wasn't fooled. She changed direction, managing to hold the thing in her mouth as she trotted off between several of the live oaks that lined the drive. I was about to call out and tell the men to stop chasing her, tell them I could get her to drop the thing by offering her a treat. I opened my mouth, but then I saw the rifle in the taller man's hands, and the words froze in my throat. All I could do was watch in horror. A voice in my head kept telling me that this
could not
be happening, but it was.

Yemassee was about to duck under the pasture fence when the man raised the rifle to his shoulder.

That broke my paralysis. “No!” Bee and I shouted at the same instant. We stood up and leaped off the porch, running toward Yemassee. The fat man glanced in our direction then said something to his partner. I never heard any sound from the gun, but in the next instant I saw Yemassee sit, then collapse onto her side and lie still.

I was already in tears, crazy with anger. I was going to run up to the man with the rifle and kick him in the crotch as hard as I could and then keep on kicking until he cried like a baby. My tears were coming so fast, I couldn't see. It was like driving in a car through a rainstorm with the window wipers off.

Bee was running beside me. I could hear her crying and yelling something, but I paid no attention. I didn't know she was telling me to stop until she tackled me and we both fell in the dirt.

“What are you doing?” I shouted. “Get off!”

But she wasn't getting off. She was keeping me pinned with all her strength. “Stay down!” she kept saying.

I got an arm free and was about to pull a good handful of her hair when I paused for half a second and looked at her face. She was a teary, snotty mess, but she kept telling me to stay down like it was the most important thing in the world. It finally got through to me.

“We can't help Yemassee if we get shot too.”

I raised my head and blinked through the dust at the two men. The one with the gun sidestepped over, dropped the gun to his hip but kept it aimed at us, and picked up whatever Yemassee had been carrying.

Then the fat man did something that surprised me. He walked over and picked up Yemassee, then backed toward the truck.

“What are you doing, man?” the tall man said, loud enough for us to hear.

“This is a Boykin spaniel!” the fat man said.

The first man grumbled as he hurried back to the truck, but the other man put Yemassee gently on the floor of the cab, then climbed in over her and slammed the door. The driver spun the wheel hard, spinning his tires and kicking up another huge cloud of dust, and the truck skidded and fishtailed in a turn and roared back out toward the county road. There was so much dirt in the air that Bee and I couldn't see a thing.

When I finally managed to get out from under Bee, I jumped up and started to run back toward where we had tied the ponies.

“What are you doing?” Bee demanded as she ran behind me.

“I'm going home to get Daddy's bullwhip,” I panted.