Page 18 of Rabid

The stabbing ache was relentless. The pressure was far stronger than she expected. It felt as if he were crushing bone.

For a moment, panic took over. The realization of the attack was suffocating. Her instincts screamed to defend herself, overriding the pain to snap her from the paralyzing fight-or-flight decision that was too late. Joan lifted her upper body and punched the dog’s head with her right fist. It did nothing. She remembered the knife right as her leg was tugged, pulling her away from the other dogs.

She could hear them fighting. Max had to survive.

Suddenly, the knife was in her hand, and she drove it into the side of the dog’s neck over and over. He didn’t whimper or cry. His teeth stayed clamped on her leg, biting deep. He wouldn’t die,and Joan had no idea how much more she could take.

Suddenly, Max was there, his fury precisely what was needed. The injured dog didn’t stand a chance. Max rammed him with the force of a sledgehammer, and he released her leg. Joan sank into the earth beneath her, hitting soft sand. She gasped for breath. Burning pain shot through her leg. After the dog stopped moving, Max crawled to her side and whined softly. Sniffing her face, he let her know he was okay as he assured himself of the same. She lifted one arm and touched his bloody muzzle.

“Give me a minute,” she whispered as she took a mental snapshot of her injuries. She bent her bitten leg slowly. It was still attached, and the thought made her smile despite what she had just been through. “Of course it was attached,” she chided herself softly.

“There are more dogs,” she whispered to Max. “I need to get up.” The words were for her this time.

She was in the middle of the wash, which was about twenty-five yards across. Too far to drag herself to one side or the other. She dug in her pockets for the bandages she’d thankfully brought. After a few minutes, she sat up. Gently, she pushed Max away.

“I’m okay, you big lug. Thank you.”

She knew that looking at the wounds was not a good idea. She used one ace bandage to wraparound her upper calf, pressing the pant material into the bites. It hurt, but she had to find Carrie and her mother. This couldn’t stop her. She wiped tears from her eyes and tried to shove the pain into its own box.

“Some tough gal I am,” she said to Max. He whined. “I’ll look at you next, but I doubt I can do much.” He had to be okay.

Joan had no idea how long she stayed there. Max had more blood in his fur and a nasty bite on his front leg, though it didn’t seem to faze him yet. Her biggest test was getting to her feet and taking a step. The dog had shaken its head while clamping down on her leg, and she knew it was more than a simple bite. There was likely muscle and tendon damage. Still, she took that first step and then another. She loosened the bandage slightly because her toes felt numb.

After a few shaky steps, she could put all her weight on the injured one, pain be damned. Her shotgun rested a few feet away, and she picked it up.

“You coming with me?” she asked Max.

The look in his eyes gave her more strength. He would protect Carrie just like he did her.

She could walk, but the injury slowed her progress. She also stopped every few minutes and listened to the night noises. There were more dogs on the prowl.

Her injured leg would make climbing theridge difficult. She would crawl if needed. Nothing would stop her.

“We’re doing this slowly,” she told Max when she could see the jagged rocky hill they had to hike.

It took twice as long as usual to make it to the top. Finally, she could see the Hogg homestead below. She made her way to the bushes she’d used before to get her photos. She always took the time to scrub her footprints away with a branch before she left. This time it didn’t matter, but the hiding spot was a good area to look at the house and make a solid plan once she knew where the men were.

Going to her stomach, she slid through the dirt and positioned herself. She rested the binoculars beside her before she called Max to join her. It took him a fraction of the time it took her to slide in. Max panted softly, and the sound comforted her. Joan lifted the field glasses and scanned the area.

The campfire burned in the pit like it always had. With the unending supply of shaggy-bark wood littered throughout the ranch, Jeb had all the free firewood he needed. Joan resented the fire. Jeb used it to hide his crimes.

She checked the wrapping on her leg. Part of it was wet, but she wasn’t in danger of bleeding to death. The thought of rabies freaked her out some. Both the reddish-brown and black dog showed signs. She would get the shots and be okay. Max would stay with her while he was in isolation. Shecould do this.

After her mental pep talk, she panned the binoculars from barn to house. Nothing moved but the flames in the fire. She did it again from the opposite direction.

Jeb stepped from the shadows into a streak of silver moonlight, his face stony, unreadable. The brindle moved at his side, silent and watchful, muscles tense as if sensing the weight of what was to come. In Jeb’s arms, his shotgun rested easily, an extension of his cruelty.

Without warning, he raised the weapon, its muzzle now trained on the worn wooden porch of his home. The movement was swift but decisive, as if every muscle in his body had been preparing for this single act. Joan felt her pulse surge as she searched the dim porch, heart pounding as her gaze fell upon a figure standing there, caught in the starkness of her binocular lens.

It was one of Jeb's sons. His posture was rigid, as if even the slightest twitch might shatter him. The silence of the night split as the shotgun roared, its deafening crack tearing through the stillness, rolling through Joan’s ears. In a breathless moment, the figure on the porch seemed to hang suspended. Then, he crumpled. It was as if time had stretched, slowing the brutal descent. The soft glow of the moon caught him as he fell, casting a shadow across the wooden boards.

Joan held her breath. Then, slowly, the echoof the shot faded, swallowed by the night, leaving only the quiet, haunting rustle of the breeze.

Jeb Hogg murdered his own flesh and blood.

Chapter Fifteen

Gone Rabid

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