“Nope. Gone to her mother’s.”
“Where’s that?”
“Indiana,” said Foster. “Old lady’s not well. She’s been gone a week now.”
“Looks like it’s time she came back,” said the sheriff, grinning. “That dog of hers looks it, too. Why don’t you feed him once in a while?”
Foster was working at the stove. He was a big man, handsome after a fashion, but now slovenly and unkempt. He kept his back to the sheriff.
“Damn thing won’t come near me,” he said. “I kicked him once, and he didn’t like it. Anyhow, he was her dog, not mine.” He added grudgingly, “How about supper? I’m going to fry some eggs.”
“Fine. I’ll wash first.”
The sheriff went out onto the back porch. There was a tin basin there, a pail of water and a ladle. He poured out some water and washed, drying his hands on a dirty roller towel and glancing about him as he did so. Certainly the place needed Nellie, with her active body and cheerful face. But he remembered that lately she had not been so cheerful, and that there had been some talk about Foster and the Burford girl on the next farm — a plump and brazen creature with an eye out for a man. Any man.
He shrugged that off. Foster was a solid citizen, a successful farmer. He had his feet on the ground, all right.
Nevertheless, the sheriff watched Foster surreptitiously as he moved around the kitchen. He might fall for a girl. He wasn’t old. Not over forty; and the Burford girl had a way with her.
While Foster fried the eggs, the sheriff poured his own coffee. Sitting at the table waiting, he saw the rifle in a corner and eyed it with surprise.
“What’s the gun for?” he asked. “Didn’t know you had one.”
“Bought it a year or two back,” said Foster. “Weasels got after the chickens.”
The two men ate companionably enough. Mostly the sheriff talked. It was in the middle of an anecdote that the dog barked in the orchard — a bark that ended in a long blood-curdling wail. Foster stiffened, and the sheriff saw it.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is that Rags?”
“Yep. He does it now and then. Someday I’ll shoot him if he keeps it up. Damned nuisance.”
“Better not do that. He’s Nellie’s dog. She’d have a fit.”
But the sound continued. Out in the orchard the dog was standing, his long tragic face pointed to the sky. But he was weak from hunger, and gradually the sounds died away. He lay down on the ground, and inside the house the sheriff watched the sweat gather on the backs of Foster’s hands.
“How long’s that been going on?” he asked. “It doesn’t sound like Rags. He was a quiet dog.”
Foster rose and picked up the plates. “Since Nellie left, mostly. He misses her, I guess. Want some more coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’d better be moving.”
But the sheriff was thoughtful as he drove back to town, and as he got ready for bed that night he spoke to his wife.
“Saw Foster this evening,” he said. “He says Nellie’s gone to visit her mother.”
“Then that’s why she wasn’t at church last Sunday. I wondered.”
“Where is the mother?” he asked. “What part of the country?”
“Indiana, I think. Why?”
Well, that was all right. He was probably only making a fool of himself. He finished undressing, went to bed and to sleep.
Out at the farm, however, there was no sleep. The dog saw to that. He stood in the orchard and bayed his grief and loneliness to the sky. At last, in a frenzy, Foster picked up the gun and went after him. It was hopeless, of course. The dog was not there, and with an oath the man went back to the house, to lie awake waiting for the sound once more.
In the past week it had been like that, as though it were a game between the two, man and dog; the dog winning at night; the man winning by day. But the advantage lay with the dog. At intervals he slept. The man could not, and he was desperate for sleep. He would doze on the porch, his rifle across his knees, waking with a jerk to find his body bathed in sweat and the gun on the floor.
He did not work on the day following the sheriff’s visit, and that night after dark he met the Burford girl out by the barn. She was a big girl, handsome and frankly lustful. She put her arms around him, but he was unresponsive.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. I couldn’t meet you last night. The sheriff was here.”
She eyed him. “The sheriff? What did he want?”
“Nothing much. Election’s coming soon. But he heard that damned dog.”
“Why don’t you poison him? I’ve said all along he’d make trouble.”
“He’s too smart for that. I’ve tried it. He won’t eat around the place. Anyhow the sheriff saw him. He might ask questions. Well, let’s forget it.” He pulled her to him and kissed her roughly. “Listen,” he said. “I’m going to sell this place and get out. You’ll come along, won’t you?”
“Sure.” But there was no conviction in her voice, and he pushed her away.
“You’ll come, all right,” he told her grimly.
It rained the next two days. The dog lay in the field and shivered. And on the third day the sheriff went into the store which was the local post office. He asked for his mail and chatted with the postmistress.
“Hear Nellie Foster’s gone away,” he said idly. “Out to Indiana.”
“That so? When did she go”?
“A week or so ago. Don’t tell me Nellie hasn’t written to Foster!”
“I don’t remember any mail for him. I don’t think he’s been in this week.”
“He can’t be anxious about her.”
“He’s pretty anxious about that girl of Burford’s. It beats me how a man with a wife will let a girl like that make a fool of him.”
“You sound pretty sure.”
“I am sure. I’ve seen them together.”
That day the sheriff had a talk with his deputy. “Maybe I’m crazy, Joe; maybe I’m not. I just don’t like it. Nellie was a homekeeping woman, and a trip to Indiana would mean something to her. What does she do? She doesn’t call up anybody and say she’s going. She just goes. It isn’t natural.”
“Sure sounds queer,” said the deputy.
“I think Nellie’s dog knows something. And it’s my guess that Foster’s out to kill him. He’s got a gun. It might be a good idea to go out there and look around, anyhow.”
They went out through the rain that afternoon. The roads after they left the state highway were muddy, and Foster was evidently not expecting company. As they turned in at his lane he was on the porch, and he had the rifle to his shoulder. He fired before he saw them.
“For God’s sake,” said the deputy, “what’s he doing?”
Then Foster saw them, and his face went blank. He put down the gun and waited for them.
“What’s the idea?” asked the sheriff, as he stopped the car. “Getting ready to go to war?”
“There’s no law against my shooting rabbits, is there?”
“Weasels and rabbits. You seem to have a lot of varmints around here, Foster.”
The sheriff got out of the car, and the deputy followed. They climbed the steps, while Foster watched them with suspicious, bloodshot eyes. He had not shaved, and he had been drinking. Not much. He was still wary.
“What do you fellows want?” he demanded.
“Well, I’ve got an errand, if you’re agreeable. I told my wife about Rag’s missing Nellie, and she said she’d like to keep him for a while.”
Foster shrugged. “You can have him if you can catch him. He’s gone plumb wild. Most ornery dog I ever saw. Won’t even eat.”
“Where is he?”
“He lies down in the wheat field a lot.”
“Well, I’ll try,” said the sheriff. He turned to go, then stopped. “Better get a license for that gun, Foster. You might get into trouble.”