Sidewinder by Jory Sherman Page A

dying, writhing next to the well, his yellowish coat filled with briars and all matted up from wallowing in mud down by the creek. He heard Pilar’s call and backed away from Pepe. He ran down in front of the other bunkhouse, which Pilar had made into a fairly large and comfortable house with a Franklin cook-stove, curtains, chairs, a bedroom with a large bed, and a large, comfortable living room. They still called it “the bunkhouse,” but it was that no longer.
    Carlos had his hand on his pistol grip, ready to draw it from his holster when he heard Pilar call his name.
    “It is Cholo,” Pilar cried, pointing to the dog, who was now crouched and snarling at her, foam flecking its mouth as if it had dipped into Julio’s shaving mug.
    “Stay away from Cholo, Pilar,” he said, waving his arms. “He is sick.”
    Then, to Pilar’s surprise, Carlos ran up to Cholo and drew his six-gun. He aimed it at the dog’s head and pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafening. Orange sparks and smoke belched from the Remington’s snout. The bullet struck Cholo in his jaw, blew out his brains. Teeth and tongue flew away like meat scraps, and brain matter plowed into the ground like cast-off bits of pudding.
    Pilar screamed and covered her face.
    Cholo stiffened and was still.
    “I have another one, Pilar. Wait here.”
    She took her hands away from her face and stared at Carlos without comprehension. He ran back to the well, and she turned her back on the dead dog after one last quick look.
    She heard the pistol shot and jumped at the report. It seemed to her that she jumped inside her skin. She slowly walked back to the bunkhouse she had converted into a home for her and Julio, stood next to the door, looking down at the flowers growing in empty Arbuckles coffee tins. Pansies and petunias, red and white gardenias, butter-cups, and morning glories. By the time Carlos returned, she was trembling, her hands shaking uncontrollably.
    “What did you do, Carlos?”
    “Pepe was suffering. Pelon was already dead.”
    “All the dogs? All three?”
    “Yes. The hydrophobia.”
    “Ah. Poisoned,” she said.
    “Yes. It is a bad way to die. I will bury the dogs.”
    “Who could have done such a thing?” She asked, her voice a querulous spiral that rose to an almost hysterical pitch.
    “Bad men,” he said. “Did not Julio tell you about the horse tracks down near the creek?”
    “No. He said nothing.”
    “Well, maybe he did not want to worry you.”
    “What about the horse tracks?”
    “It is nothing. Riders passing by, perhaps.”
    “It is more than that, Carlos.” She had stopped shaking now that she had a new worry to make her fret.
    “Maybe,” he said. “I go now. I must clean my pistol and put more bullets in the cylinder.”
    “You are worried, is it not so?” she said.
    “Worried? About what?”
    “Those men. Maybe they are the ones who—who poisoned the dogs.”
    “I do not know.”
    She grabbed Carlos by the shoulder and whirled him around to face her.
    “You do know,” she said. “Men on horseback. Passing by? Men do not pass by without speaking. Unless they are . . .” She paused, searching for the word. “Spying,” she finished.
    “Maybe they rode by at night when we were all sleeping, so they did not stop and give a greeting. Who knows?”
    She glared at him but softened her gaze. Carlos was not at fault. He had done nothing. But she wondered why Julio had not told her about the men, the tracks of the horses. He was the one she should have anger for, her own husband. Keeping secrets. Oh, she could shake him for not telling her.
    Well, she thought, she would have much to say to Julio when he returned.
    “Go and bury the dogs, Carlos,” she said. “Clean your pistol. Put fresh cartridges in it. Bury them deep and put stones on their graves or the wolves will feast on them.”
    “I will do this, Pilar.”
    He touched a finger to the brim of his hat and headed for his own bunkhouse. He would get a