Aggie was out for the afternoon, so I was upstairs reading on my comfy old bed instead of the lumpy pallet for a change. He burst into my room without knocking, something he'd never done before, eyes wild, stark terror in his face. For one terrible moment, I thought that someone in our family had died.

"It's Bandit," he choked. "She's killed one of the hens. You've got to help me!"

"Help you what?" I said, leaping to my feet, wondering what on earth could be done.

We ran out to the henhouse, where the hysterical inhabitants milled about Bandit in fear and confusion. Her paws and muzzle were smeared with blood, and there was a crazed look in her eyes. I realized she was nearly fully grown and impossible to control. A feather dangled clownishly from the corner of her mouth. Now there were two dead hens instead of one.

"What'll we do?" he cried.

"Go in there and stop her, Travis." I ran to the barn and retrieved a stout canvas sack. By the time I got back, Travis had cornered Bandit away from the hens and was trying to entice her within reach, his voice shaking. She looked like no one's pet; she looked like a wild animal.

I hissed at him, "If you calm down, then she'll calm down."

He got himself under control and spoke to Bandit in low, soothing tones. I retrieved a newly laid egg from one of the nests and broke it open on the ground. She was so busy trying to scoop up the runny mess in her paws that she didn't notice me sneaking up behind her. I flung the sack over her, and she screamed in fury. I held the sack closed but knew I couldn't contain the boiling racc.o.o.n within it for long. It was like grabbing a tiger by the tail.

I wheezed at my brother, who stood there wide-eyed and useless. "Get some rope or some baling wire. Hurry!"

The urgency of my words got through to him, and he jumped into action. A few moments later, he returned from the barn with a length of twine. We tied the neck of the sack, then paused to catch our breath. Travis had streaks of blood on his hands. I was sticky with egg yolk. The sack on the ground chittered and writhed.

We stared at each other, and the light dawned simultaneously that our troubles, far from being over, were in fact multiplying. What swamp of trouble had he mired us in?

In anguish, he whispered, "They'll kill her if they find out."

For a split second, I wavered. I could do the responsible thing, the adult thing: go to Father, and thereby break my brother's heart. Or I could cast my vote with Travis, and we could face the fire together.

I said, "First we have to get her out of sight. Help me."

Together we lifted the thrashing sack and carried it into the barn. We hid Bandit near her old cage and then regrouped. Hauling a thirty-pound racc.o.o.n around was harder work than you'd think.

I grabbed a shovel and said, "We've got to bury the evidence."

We returned to the pen, where the hens, calmer now, were starting to investigate the bodies of their former sisters. I thought about burying the corpses right there, but we were in sight of the back porch. Better to get them out of there and bury them later. While I spaded dirt over the blood, I ordered Travis to take the dead hens into the barn.

He said, "I ... I don't think I can."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, this is no time to be queasy." I handed him the shovel and grabbed both hens by the feet and carried them, necks flopping, into the barn.

The next order of business was to clean ourselves up. We went to the trough and took turns scouring each other with my wet handkerchief. Having no mirror, I wiped the blood from his cheek (without telling him what it was), and then he rubbed the egg from my chin. We inspected each other and, although we were somewhat disheveled, decided we could pa.s.s cursory inspection.

"Now what do we do?" he said.

"We have to take her as far away as we can. Far enough so that she won't come back."

"We could put her in the wheelbarrow and take her down the road to Prairie Lea."

Although this wasn't the best plan in the world, I was relieved that he was at least now thinking on his feet.

"We could do that," I said, "but we'd probably run into someone we know, and it might get back to Mother and Father. I think we'll have to go downriver on one of the deer paths." Lucky for us, Sunday afternoons were relatively relaxed, a time of loosened supervision. I figured we could get away with a few hours' absence.

"Stay here," I said. "I'll tell them we're going on a nature walk."

I ran to the back porch, took a moment to smooth myself down, and went into the kitchen, where Viola was cooking lunch. The second she laid eyes on me, she said, "What is it? What's wrong?" There was real worry in her face, so apparently I didn't look as normal as I thought. Her concern, along with the stress roiling within me, was almost too much. How easy it would be to break down in tears right then and there, but this was a luxury neither I nor Travis could afford. For better or worse, my brother's happiness depended on me.

I got a grip and said, "Will you please tell Mother that Travis and I are going on a nature walk? We won't go far, and we'll be back by supper." I ran out the door before she could quiz me further, and before I broke down.

Travis spoke soothing words to Bandit, who uttered sporadic protests. I was grateful that the sack was made of thick canvas, but with her wily brain and dexterous paws, I worried about how long it would hold her. She was probably plotting her escape at that very moment.

"Come on, we have to hurry. We'll take the path to the inlet." Neither of us owned a watch, but I reckoned by the sun that we had about four hours, maybe five at the most.

I took the two dead hens. Travis lifted the sack to hissing and muttering; we set off, alternately trotting and walking through the scrub. At the inlet I dropped the two sad corpses into the shallow water, where the a.s.sorted wildlife would be grateful to receive them.

We pressed on, taking turns with our unhappy burden. If you think it's easy carrying a grumbling, thrashing sack of racc.o.o.n for miles, think again. Sometimes we lugged her between us, and sometimes we slung the sack over our backs like Santa Claus toting the world's most uncooperative gift. Often we had to stop and rest. We had not a crumb of food between us and nothing to drink but river water. At one point, Travis proposed we open the sack and give Bandit some water too, but hastily retracted his suggestion when he saw the look on my face.

We struggled on, branches whipping us in the face, thorns tearing our legs, sweat bees and no-see-ums adding to our torment, but thankfully, we saw no one and no one saw us. Finally, when we could go no farther, we collapsed in a heap. I judged we were about halfway to Prairie Lea.

Travis panted, "Thanks, Callie. I guess I owe you one."

"Wrong. You owe me about a million. Now open the sack."

I watched his face change with the realization that the moment of farewell was at hand.

He had barely loosened the rope when Bandit's sharp, impatient nose protruded and she shoved her way out, more than ready for her freedom. She scampered off a few yards and then sniffed the ground, sniffed the air, turned, and sniffed at us. Then she ambled back to Travis and gave him one of those expectant, where's-my-dinner kind of looks.

I said, "Go on, Bandit, go away," and stamped my foot. She ignored me. "Travis, we have to go. Turn away, don't look at her. Come on and follow me. Right now." I headed back down the trail.

"Bye, Bandit," he said, and I heard the agony in his voice. "Be a good girl. Have a nice life and be a good girl." He dashed the tears from his eyes and followed me.

And Bandit followed him.

"Stop," I cried, and waved my arms at her. She barely glanced my way.

"Travis," I said in mounting desperation, "you have to make her go."

She stood up on her hind legs and put her paws on his knees. Tears streamed down his face and fell into her fur. He reached down to pick her up, and I screamed, "Don't, you're killing her! If she comes back, they'll shoot her. You know they will."

Stricken, he said, "Go 'way, Bandit." Then more sternly, "Scoot!" He pushed her off his knee, and she looked at him with, I swear, puzzlement.

"Yell at her," I said. "Chase her off."

He raised his voice and flapped his arms. "Scoot, Bandit!"

"Louder," I said. "More."

He screamed at her, and she looked uncertain. He charged at her, and she backed away.

Then he did what I'm sure was the hardest thing of his young life: He picked up a handful of stones and started throwing them at her, weeping and yelling the whole time. "Go away, you stupid racc.o.o.n," he screamed. "I can't love you anymore."

The first stone whizzed over her head, and she turned to look at whatever it was behind her. The second one struck the ground in front of her paws, and she flinched. The third rock struck her on the flanks with a faint thunk. It wasn't a very big stone, only a pebble, and it probably didn't hurt, but I couldn't tell who was more shocked, she or Travis. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She growled like a dog at her former lord and master, turned tail, and disappeared into the bush.

Sobbing, Travis wheeled and ran down the trail toward home. I followed him, helpless, filled with pity and admiration, sending up a silent prayer to the racc.o.o.n G.o.ds that none of us would ever set eyes on Bandit again.

IF THE TRIP OUT had been miserable, the trip home was excruciating. Scratched, sunburned, hungry, weary, and burdened not with a racc.o.o.n but a heartbroken brother.

When we stopped to rest, I hugged him and said, "You did a brave thing. You saved her, you know."

He only nodded and sobbed. He managed to cry himself out and wipe most of the grief from his face by the time we got home, for which I was grateful. We did our best to tidy ourselves before going inside but still were met with quizzical looks at the table. Lamar spoke to me in a voice carefully calculated for me (but not Mother) to hear: "You look like someone dragged you through the cactus patch backward and beat you with buzzard guts. Har."

I was too tuckered out to come up with a smart retort. Travis and I managed to hold it together through the meal, and I was proud of both of us. But there was one thing we'd forgotten. How to explain the loss of two hens out of fourteen? If I'd been thinking more clearly, I'd have torn an "escape" hole in the corner of the pen to explain their disappearance.

Viola noted their absence the next day when collecting eggs for breakfast. She must have guessed that we had something to do with it but she never brought it up. She must have figured that we had paid a high enough price-whatever it was-for the goings-on, whatever they were.

A week later, the scab healing over Travis's grief was ripped open again when we discovered what we figured was Bandit's former den, a dry hole in the riverbank where she'd been living before he found her. The rank hole was littered with chicken bones and fish guts and even a filthy sc.r.a.p of cloth that turned out to be part of a man's shirt, filched, no doubt, from some housewife's clothesline.

Travis paled and said, "It's too close to home. If she comes back here, she might come all the way back to the house."

Our discovery caused him several sleepless nights but-thank goodness-we never saw that racc.o.o.n again. I sympathized with Travis as best I could until I had to face an animal trauma of my own.

CHAPTER 13.

DR. PRITZKER IN ACTION.

Many of the remedies used by the people of the country are ludicrously strange, but too disgusting to be mentioned.

DR. PRITZKER WAS NOW OFFICIALLY in business, with Viola's nephew Samuel as his newly hired a.s.sistant. He had rented an office off Main Street that shared a corral and stable with the blacksmith, an arrangement that would increase business for them both. Our opportunity to see the doctor in action came soon enough. The draft horse King Arthur had gone lame and was getting worse. Our family owned six heavy horses, four riding horses, and Sunshine, the vicious elderly Shetland pony that most of us were now too big or too smart to ride, what with her propensity for trying to take a chunk out of your leg and hanging on like a snapping turtle.

Dr. Pritzker and Samuel pulled up in a cart drawn by a buckskin mare. Samuel unloaded a big clanking canvas bag and carried it to the barn. Travis and I trailed along behind, interested in how a veterinarian with only one usable arm could possibly manage.

"How is your hand, Dr. Pritzker?" I said.

"It's getting a little stronger, Calpurnia. Nice of you to ask. I have a ball of India rubber, and I squeeze it as hard as I can for ten minutes every morning and evening. The exercise improves the muscles, you see." He held up his clawed hand and tried to waggle the stiff fingers.

"I see," I said doubtfully. It looked about the same to me.

We followed them into the cool depths of the barn where stood King Arthur, a great gentle dapple-gray Clydesdale with feathered hooves and a mild personality much at odds with his intimidating physique. If you wanted to, you could fit half a dozen children along his back. And unlike Sunshine, he wouldn't even blink, let alone try and take a hunk out of you.

Arthur stood on three legs, the left front leg canted off the ground. His head drooped; his eyes were filmy. He looked the very picture of an unwell equine.

Samuel and Dr. Pritzker each put on a leather ap.r.o.n and entered the stall. Samuel secured a rope to Arthur's halter, smoothing his forelock and gently rubbing the long face.

Travis said, "What's wrong with him, Dr. Pritzker?"

"You see how he's standing? He doesn't want to put any weight on that hoof, which means it's either founder or an abscess. Let's hope it's an abscess."

"Why?" Travis said.

"Because founder is h.e.l.l-uh, difficult to treat, unlike an abscess, which is easy to fix."

"How do you fix it?"

"You'll see. Snub him up tight now, Samuel."

Samuel looped the rope through a tie-down ring and then gently lifted the leg, cradling the hoof in his hands. Dr. Pritzker produced a strangely shaped tool that looked rather like a medieval instrument of torture. Being used to Granddaddy's lessons, I expected him to tell me its name and its uses. But he said nothing, merely started pressing it against various parts of Arthur's hoof.

I spoke up impatiently. "What is that thing?"

He glanced up and seemed surprised. But why? Was I just supposed to stand there being decorative? What about learning something new? Granddaddy always said that life was full of opportunities to learn something new about the world, and one should glean all one could from an expert in his field, no matter what that field might be.

Dr. Pritzker said, "It's called a hoof tester. You compress various parts of the hoof with it, and it tells you where the pain is." He tapped gently. Arthur flinched and whickered and tried to toss his head against the rope.

"Abscess, I think." He pulled a long curved knife from his tool bag and said, "I'm not sure you should watch this."

"Why not?" I said.

"Well, it's not a sight for those of delicate const.i.tution."

Me? Delicate? What a laugh. I said, "I only look delicate, but I'm not. Really."

"Well, I doubt your momma would approve."

"She doesn't care," I lied. I had no idea what he was referring to but I knew for a fact that anything Mother didn't approve of would probably be really interesting.

"I suspect she'll care about this. Better stand back."

We took a small step back.

"A bit more."

We took another small step back. He looked as if he was going to order us back again, so I said, "We have to be able to see, you know."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he said wryly. I barely had time to think, Warn us about what? when he inserted the point of the knife into the bottom of the hoof and twisted it. A great gout of foul-smelling black fluid erupted from the hoof; it fountained all the way across the stall and splattered on the far wall, missing us by inches.

"Yow!" I'd never seen anything like it. It was dumbfounding ... disgusting ... amazing. I turned to Travis. "Did you see that?"

He didn't answer. He was breathing heavily and had turned an interesting greenish hue.

I said to Dr. Pritzker, "What is all that stuff?"

"That's the pus and blood from the infection. He'll start to feel better now that it's out."

"And he's been carrying all that stuff around in his hoof? Why does it smell like that?"