Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [51]
We slipped beneath the banner as a knee-high, mangy, collarless, mostly white dog walked down the bank and sunk her muzzle in the water. She had one black eye and a hungry litter somewhere, because her freckled teats were engorged and the milky tips were dragging the sand. A half mile further down, we passed three pit bulls with spiked collars rolling in the mud. Two of them had cuts above their eyes while the third was missing an eye entirely. The fence beyond them held a spray-painted sign that read “Forget Dog, Beware of Owner.” Behind them, cows ambled through a pasture flanked by pesky cowbirds and horseflies the size of half dollars.
We paddled through the wafting smoke and pungent smell of a burning trash pile as six more pit bulls raced across the yard aimed at us. They crossed the hundred-yard distance before I had time to fumble for the revolver. When they reached the river’s edge, they stood ten feet off the bank in a perfect row and bared their teeth. They growled, spewing spit across the river, and a few even barked, but they did not cross the imaginary line. Each wore a collar with a small black box and a little antenna that suggested an electric fence for which I was grateful. I hoped the inventor of that gizmo was enjoying his retirement on some beach served by cabana girls carrying little umbrella-decorated drinks. He’d earned it. I made no sudden movement and slowly push-poled us through the shallows. Abbie cracked one eye and said, “Am I about to be eaten?”
I shook my head slowly but didn’t take my eyes off the bank. “Not as long as the power stays on.”
“And if the power goes out?”
“Well…I’m bigger, so they’ll probably chomp on me first. You should have time to reach the top of the bluff before they pick me clean and come looking for dessert.”
“That’s comforting.”
WE MADE FOUR MORE miles by sundown. The river began to open a little, requiring less portage and more paddling. Long white sandy beaches paralleled us on either side. Palm trees shot up like rockets and palmettos bent over the sides of the bank, dipping their fronds in the water like tender fingers. Redwood-sized pine trees, anchored into the banks, towered like skyscrapers along with sprawling scrub oaks.
Mom was right.
Sundown came and found me looking over my shoulder. It wasn’t like I could go running to the police. I thought maybe we could outrun them, but I had a feeling they knew this river about as well as I did. A gentle breeze picked up and the river made a hard right turn. Almost a complete 180-degree. This was Skinner’s Beach. Up the bank was a small screened-in outdoor kitchen and an artesian well fitted with a rusted old hand-pump that used to work. Church youth groups, Boy Scout troops and Friday-night tailgaters regularly frequent here due to its many campsites, availability of water and the large grill, tables and covered area in the event of rain.
I beached the canoe, slid it beneath the shade and lifted Abbie into my arms. She didn’t open her eyes or move—the pain had returned. I carried her up the bank, pushed open the screen door and laid her on the table that was long enough to seat some twenty people. I propped her head up and then started priming the pump to bring the water up. It finally gurgled out, rusted and stained. Three minutes of pumping and the water was clear, cold and sweet. I washed out a stainless-steel mug and carried water to Abbie. She sat up, sipped and then lay back down. I grabbed the Pelican case from the canoe, uncapped one of the dexamethasone syringes and then turned Abbie on her side. I swabbed her skin with alcohol, then slid the needle into what remained of the meat of her left cheek.
I returned to the pump and bent next to the spout, letting it rain down over my head. It was cold, clean and helped open my weary eyes. When my right arm grew tired of pumping,