The Return. Dinah McCall
Jubal grinned. “Easy on the whiskey, boys. You don’t want to be runnin’ into any trees like Hank did last time.”
Hank frowned. “Damn near put my eye out,” he muttered, as his father and brothers laughed, remembering the chaos that had erupted from the accident.
They sat for a while longer, enjoying the heat from the fire and the warmth of whiskey in their bellies. It was Little Lou’s howl, followed by an answering chorus from the other hounds, that changed their perspective.
Jubal stood abruptly. “Sounds promisin’, boys. Let’s go see what we’ve got.”
Hank reached for his gun as John doused their fire. “Maybe it’s a painter, Pa.”
The mountain term for panther was familiar to them all, and, to a man, they shivered as they followed their father’s lead.
The pack was moving upward. Five minutes into the run, the muscles in Jubal’s legs began to burn, but he refused to acknowledge his pain. This would be his last winter to hunt. Age was doing something that his wife never could. It was slowing him down. But he kept on moving, refusing to show weakness in front of the men whom he’d sired. It wasn’t until Hank suddenly stopped that they all realized the howls of the dogs sounded fainter.
“What the hell?” Charles muttered. “Where did they go?”
Jubal stood with his head cocked to one side, trying to identify the familiarity of the sound. Suddenly he knew.
“They’ve gone underground!” he yelled. “Hell’s fire, boys, they must be in a cave.”
“It is a painter,” Hank cried.
Jubal grinned. “Then let’s go kill us a cat.”
They started off at a jog, still following the faint, but distinct, sounds of the pack.
It was John who first saw the opening.
“There!” he shouted, and they turned, holding their lanterns high and their guns at the ready as they moved inside.
The dogs were everywhere, noses to the ground, running over the makeshift bed, digging in a dimly lit corner. The cacophony of their baying and howls was painful to the ear within the confines of the enclosure.
“What the hell?” Jubal muttered, as he held his lantern high. “This ain’t no animal’s lair.”
John shouted, calling down his dogs. Hank and Charles quickly did the same. The noise trickled down to a series of soft whines and yips, but it was enough that the men could make themselves heard.
“Look here, Pa,” Hank said, pointing toward a satchel of clothes. Surprise colored his expression when he pulled out a woman’s dress. “Well, I’ll be danged. Women’s clothes.”
Jubal’s expression darkened as he poked into the jumble of boxes with the barrel of his gun. Then he looked at Old Blue and Little Lou, who were digging frantically in a darkened area of the cave.
“What the hell are those dogs digging at?” he muttered.
John moved toward them, holding his lantern high, then suddenly cursed and took a step back.
“There’s something buried here,” he yelled, pushing the dogs away from the hole.
They all converged on the place, holding their lanterns and flashlights aloft. Charles knelt for a closer look, then turned away suddenly, gagging.
“Shit,” he muttered, as he staggered to his feet. “There’s something bloody in there.”
Jubal shoved them aside for a closer look. His nose twitched, but his belly stayed steady.
“It ain’t nothing but some innards or somethin’,” he said. “Most likely whoever is stayin’ here just buried the guts of some game.”
“That ain’t like no guts I ever saw,” John said. “There’s some bloody clothes here, too,” he said, and lifted them out with the barrel of his gun. “Hell. It’s another dress.” He dropped it back in the hole with a shudder and moved away, poking through a book that was lying on a block of wood that had obviously been used as a table. Moments later, he spun, his face slack with shock. “Pa! Look here.”
Jubal took the book, read the name inscribed and dropped it into the dirt.
“Fancy Joslin.”
Then he spat, as if the name alone had poisoned his tongue.
Hank and Charles cursed, while John remained silent.
“So this is where she got off to,” Jubal muttered.
“Now, Pa. I don’t imagine no woman has been living in here,” John said, trying to add a bit of sanity to the moment.
“Where the hell else would she be living, then?” Jubal asked. “Frank’s house is gone. Burned to the foundation…remember?”
John looked away. The feud was a bone of contention between father and son, and had been for some time now. John was loyal to his blood, but of the opinion that a feud was something that belonged with the old ways, not the twentieth century.
“Well, wherever she went is no concern of ours,” John said. “Come on, let’s go.”
Jubal turned on his son, and in that moment the hate that burned in his heart was focused on John Blair’s face.
“What do you mean, it’s no concern of ours?”
John held his ground. “Just what I said. It’s over, Pa. Let it and her be.”
Before Jubal could answer, Charles interrupted. “Well, I’ll be damned. Look at this.”
They turned. Charles was holding up a baby blanket and a newborn-size gown.
Jubal cursed, then spat again. His voice was shaking as he yanked the items out of Charles’s hand, then threw them in the dirt and ground them beneath the sole of his boot.
“See there?” he yelled, pointing at John. “That’s what happens when you leave them alone. Females are the worst of the lot. Just when you think you’ve gotten rid of a pest, they’ll breed up another batch.”
He grabbed the dress Hank had found and pushed his way past his sons toward the mouth of the cave.
“Come on,” he yelled. “Bring the dogs!”
John blanched. “Pa! What do you think you’re doing?”
Jubal turned, and the smile on his face chilled John’s heart. “I’m goin’ huntin’, boy!”
“No!” John yelled, then looked to his brothers. “Hank! Charles! Tell him!” he begged. “We don’t wage war on women.”
Hank shrugged. Charles shook his head. “Pa’s right,” he said. “It ain’t over till it’s over.” Jubal whistled up the dogs, then thrust the dress into their midst.
“Go get her, boys. Go get her.”
Still antsy from being called off the hunt, the dogs took the scent of the dress and then burst out of the cave into the night like bullets out of a gun, with the hunters right behind them.
John ran, too, with his heart in his throat, hoping that they’d been wrong, that it wasn’t Fancy Joslin after all.
Fancy’s legs were numb. She couldn’t feel anything but the child in her arms and the thunder of her heartbeat slapping against her chest. One step, then another, then another, and suddenly she was on her back in the leaves and looking up at the sky.
“No,” she wailed, and curled onto her side, sheltering the child in her arms in the only way that she could. Her heart was hammering against her eardrums, her breath coming in jerks and gasps. If only Turner could have seen their daughter. He would have been so proud.
Suddenly