Ryan also held his breath, seeing the way the big dog’s haunches were quivering with barely repressed tension, ready to spring at the boy’s throat.
The sound of the blaster was surprisingly flat, out in the open.
“Told you” Trader growled, still braced against the muzzle of Ryan’s SIG-Sauer.
The animal didn’t move for several seconds.
“Again?” J.B. asked.
Jak answered the question. “No need. Chilled it.”
The dog’s head went back as though it had been distracted by a bird flying near by. It gave a strange, growling bark, then its muzzle dropped to the shingle, its flanks shivered, and it was motionless.
Mildred bolstered the revolver.
She began to walk toward Dean, who was still carefully watching the dead animal. Jak and the others all followed her, boots crunching in the quiet.
Neither Trader nor Ryan moved.
“Well?” the older man said.
“Mildred won a silver medal in the free-shooting pistol event at the last ever Olympic Games, in Miami. She’s the best shot with a handblaster that I ever saw.”
“What ’bout three-eyed Charlie, lived near the Sippibackin”
“The best,” Ryan insisted firmly. “I knew she could pull that shot off and save Dean from, at best, a bad mauling. Better than any of us.”
“Could’ve said. Didn’t have to ram that blaster into my ribs like that.”
“No time.” He sniffed. “Reckon I can put it back in its holster now?”
“Sure.”
Ryan put away the SIG-Sauer, every nerve on the alert for Trader swinging the butt of the Armalite at his head. But there was nothing.
The others had gathered around Dean, but Ryan noticed that Krysty was watching the dramatic scene behind her, and her hand was on the butt of her own five-shot Smith amp; Wesson double-action 640.
“That dog had a collar on,” Trader said.
“Didn’t notice.”
His laugh turned into a cough. “Never did see everything, Ryan, with only one fucking eye.”
“See more with one than you do with two.”
Trader grinned. “That’ll be the day, pilgrim. Yeah, that’ll be the day.”
They walked together across the sloping beach. Ryan thought that the moment of extreme tension had passed, until Trader grabbed him by the forearm, his fingers like steel traps.
“Just before we get to the others, partner.”
“Sure.”
“Known me a long time. Know that not many men stick me with a blaster and ever eat another meal.”
“I’d do it again, Trader. If I had to, I’d do it again, just the same.”
“I know you would. Just so’s you know I might not react so slow next time.”
“If there is a next time.”
The fingers relaxed their grip. “Let’s go see how pretty a shot the lady is.”
The dog lay on the beach, surrounded by the rest of the group of friends. Ryan walked up and patted Dean on the back. “All right, son?”
“Sure,” be replied, though the pallor of his cheeks told a slightly different story. “Came out of the woods at me. I reckon I could have taken it with my knife.”
“You thanked Mildred?”
“Yeah, he did,” she replied.
“Good-looking animal,” Ryan said, noticing that Trader had been correct. There was a metal collar around its throat, above the three white stars.
“Real big.” Abe bent down to stare at it. “I don’t see the bullet hole, Mildred. No blood.”
She leaned over to look, nodding, so that the beads in her hair clattered softly. “Yeah. Where I aimed. I couldn’t see much, because of Dean being in the way. Just part of its head. So I shot it through the right ear.”
Trader laughed. “You hit a dog in the ear at a hundred yards! With a fucking handblaster!”
“There,” Krysty said, pointing with the chiseled toe of her boot. “See the tiny trickle of blood. Absolutely perfect shot.”
“Told you.” Ryan grinned.
BEFORE RETURNING to the campsite, Ryan unbuckled the collar from the dog’s throat.
“What does it say?” Doc asked. “Mayhap that his name was Rover and he lived at Sunnydown Cottage?”
“No. I reckon it was called Three Stars,” Abe suggested.
“Killer Bastard” was Dean’s own offering for the dog’s name.
“Well, lover? Tell us?”
“According to this collar tag, the dog was called ‘279792493A.’ Funny sort of a name, isn’t it?”