Page 62 of The Sound of Sleighbells

“Mom let him out while you were helping Abner get dressed. Maybe he needs to go out again.”

Skip pushed himself off the sagging couch and walked toward the dog. “What’s up, Butch?” he asked. “What are you trying to tell us?”

Butch whined urgently, then began to growl, a dark, menacing sound. Something was out there, and Butch’s behavior told him that it wasn’t a cat. Skip made a move to open the door, then checked himself. If a dangerous intruder was out there—animal or human—the dog could be hurt. Abner would be heartbroken if anything were to happen to his pet.

But Butch was clearly trying to warn him. An animal would eventually go away. But a person? Skip remembered the conversation he’d overheard—how Abner and the dog had scared off a prowler and how, earlier, Digger had tried to set Judd’s shop on fire.

If it was Digger, what could he want? Maybe he was here to set the barn, or even the house, on fire. If Ruth came back, she could be in danger, too.

Skip couldn’t just stand here and let something terrible happen. It was up to him to protect his family and to guard Abner’s property.

Abner kept a shotgun in the back of his closet. Skip had never fired any kind of gun. He didn’t know whether the shotgun was loaded or where to find the shells, but maybe that wouldn’t matter. With luck, the sight of the big, double-barreled 12-gauge would be enough to scare off the intruder.

He found the heavy gun and brought it back into the living room. His sisters stared at it with big, frightened eyes. “Don’t be scared,” he told them. “I’m just going to see what’s making Butch growl. Hold on to him, and don’t let him outside, understand?”

Still wide-eyed, the girls nodded.

“One more thing. When I go out, lock the door behind me. Whatever happens, don’t open it unless you hear me or Mom on the other side. Okay?”

Again, they nodded.

“Good. I’m counting on you to be brave and smart.” Ordering the dog to stay, Skip stepped out onto the porch and closed the door. Behind him, he heard the metallic click of the lock.

* * *

Digger had reached the barn and opened the door far enough to slip through. At first his snow-dazzled eyes could see only blackness. The air smelled of stale manure, moldering hay, and dust. Overhead, he could hear a trapped bird—or maybe a bat—fluttering against the rafters. The place was freezing cold.

Taking the flashlight out of his pocket, he switched it on. The barn looked as if it hadn’t been used for anything but storage in years. Spiderwebs hung in the corners. Four blocks stood in the middle of the floor, where something had been removed—probably the Christmas sleigh. The only other large object looked like an old piece of farm machinery covered with a tarp. Rusty tools leaned against one wall.

At the far end was a ramshackle stack of bales, the hay tumbling loose from the twine. The hay was probably riddled with mice nests, but that wouldn’t matter, as long as he found what he was looking for.

By now his vision had adjusted to the dark. When he switched off the flashlight, he could see well enough to find his way. Getting to the stash would be a matter of reaching into the hay and feeling with his hands.

Ed had told him that the bag would be in the middle, close to the back. Crouching, he thrust his fingers into prickly hay and began pawing it away, onto the floor of the barn.

* * *

With the shotgun cold and heavy in his hands, Skip followed the fresh tracks to the barn. From inside, he could hear a rustling sound—like a foraging animal might make, except that the only animal tracks outside were the dog’s.

Whoever was in there, they were clearly up to no good. Maybe they were piling hay to start a fire.

Did the intruder have a gun? There was no way to tell, but he had to assume the answer was yes. Storming in through the double front doors could get him shot. The safer approach would be through the smaller side door.

As he sprinted around the side of the barn, Skip forced himself to think. Even with a gun, he was too inexperienced to overcome the intruder and take him prisoner. The sensible thing would be to scare him away.

He stopped at the door, moved to one side, and shouted, “I know you’re in there, mister. I’ve got a shotgun, and I know how to use it. I’m giving you to the count of three to light out before I step in there and blow your head off.”

* * *

Digger muttered an obscenity. He recognized that voice. It was Ruth’s boy. A skinny kid like that one probably couldn’t lick a rooster, but if he really had a gun, and if he meant what he said, Digger would be smart to get out of sight.

One thing was for sure. No matter what he had to do, he wasn’t leaving without the cocaine.

Thinking fast, he ducked between the covered piece of machinery and the wall. The shadows were deep there. Maybe the kid would think he’d run off.

In case he was discovered and had to fight, he was going to need a weapon. His hand groped around him for anything he could use—a stick of wood, maybe a tool of some kind.

His fingers closed on a wooden handle attached to a broad, metal blade. A shovel. It was better than nothing. It would have to do.

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