A Lawman's Christmas_ A McKettricks of Texas Novel - Linda Lael Miller [25]
“Get the hell out of here,” Clay said. He could not abide a bully.
The two men responded by turning on their heels and running in the other direction.
Clay waited until they were out of sight before he put the .45 back in its holster and approached the dog. “You in a bad way there, fella?” he asked, crouching to offer a hand.
The animal sniffed cautiously at his fingers and whimpered again.
“Where’d you come from?” Clay asked, gently examining the critter for broken bones or open wounds. He seemed to be all right, though his ribs protruded and his belly was concave and he stunk like all get-out.
The dog whined, though this time there was less sorrow in the sound.
“You know,” Clay told the animal companionably, “I was just thinking to myself that what I need is a dog to keep me company. Now, here you are. How’d you like to help me keep the peace in this sorry excuse for a town?”
The dog seemed amenable to the idea, and raised himself slowly, teetering a little, to his four fur-covered feet. He had burrs stuck in his coat, that poor cuss, and there was no telling what color he was, or if he leaned toward any particular breed.
“You come on with me, if you can walk,” Clay said. “I brought home what was left of my supper, and it seems to me you could use a decent meal.”
With that, he turned to head back toward the sidewalk. The dog limped after him, pausing every few moments, as though afraid he’d committed some transgression without knowing about it.
Back at the jailhouse, Clay got a better look at the dog, after lighting a lantern to see by, but seeing didn’t help much. The creature was neither big nor little, and he had floppy ears, but that was the extent of what Clay could make out.
Glad to have something to do, not to mention some companionship, Clay poured the remains of his chicken and dumplings onto the one tin plate he possessed and set it on the floor, near the stove.
The dog sniffed at the food, looked up at Clay with the kind of uncertainty that breaks a decent person’s heart and waited.
“You go ahead and have supper,” Clay said gently. “I imagine you could use some water, too.”
Slowly, cautiously, the dog lowered his muzzle and began to eat.
Clay walked softly, approaching the water bucket, and ladled up a dipperful.
The dog lapped thirstily from the well of the dipper, then returned to his supper, clearly ravenous, licking the plate clean as a whistle.
Clay carried in more water from the pump out back, heated it bucket by bucket on the potbellied stove and finally filled the washtub he’d found in one of the cells. He eased the dog into the warm water and sluiced him down before lathering his hide with his own bar of soap.
The animal didn’t raise any fuss, he simply stood there, shivering and looking like nothing so much as a half-drowned rat. Gradually, it became clear that his coat was brown and white, speckled like a pinto horse.
Clay dried him off with one of the two towels he’d purchased earlier, over at the mercantile, hefted him out of the tub and set him gently on his feet, near the stove.
The dog looked up at him curiously, head tilted to one side.
Clay chuckled. “Now, then,” he said. “You look a lot more presentable than you did before.”
The dog gave a single, tentative woof, obviously unsure how the remark would be received in present company.
Clay leaned to pat the animal’s damp head. “What you are,” he said, “is a coincidence. Like I told you, I was thinking about how much I’d like to have a dog, and then you and I made our acquaintance. But since ‘coincidence’ would be too much trouble for a name, I figure I’ll call you Chester.”
“Woof,” said Chester, with more confidence than before.
Clay laughed. “Chester it is, then,” he agreed.
Using a rough blanket from the cot in the jail cell, Clay fashioned a bed for the dog, close to the stove. Chester sniffed the cloth, stepped gingerly onto it, made a circle and settled down with a sigh.
“’Night,” Clay said.
Chester