I followed his pointing finger, and sure enough, a little brown face poked out of the tangle of vines and undergrowth twenty feet away on the far side of one of the dam's concrete abutments and regarded us with ... hope?

I felt a sudden surge of grat.i.tude that we-and the dog-had been given another chance.

"Whatever you do," I said, "don't touch it."

"Never." Travis unwrapped the turkey and spoke kindly. "Good doggy. Here's some breakfast for you."

The dog drooled and licked its chops but would not approach.

"Throw it," I said.

He pitched it underhand, but the dog, no doubt reminded of rocks and bottles thrown its way, flinched and yelped. A moment later it wheeled and staggered off.

Travis cried, "Oh no! Doggy, come back. It's food."

"It'll be okay. Pitch it over there, and he'll find it."

"How do you know for sure?"

"It's a dog-sort of-so it lives by its nose. It'll smell that turkey and be back for it the minute we leave."

He tossed it over and made a pretty good job of it, most of the sc.r.a.ps landing within a few feet of where it had disappeared. We sat in silence for a minute as the sun warmed the horizon, but the dog did not return.

We walked through the front door as Viola was beating the gong in the front hall for breakfast. After the din died down, we followed her into the kitchen to wash our hands, where she said, "You feeding something?"

"No," I said before Travis could open his mouth, which of course he did, saying, "How did you know?"

"'Cos I planned to get another dinner off that turkey, but now it's only good for soup."

"Well," I said, "soup is good."

"Tchah," she said in exasperation and flapped a dish towel at us. "You-all scoot. I got work to do."

On our way home from school, we approached the gin from the other side of the dam to see if we could spot the dog. No luck. But to our dismay, we found the uneaten turkey meat where we'd left it, swarming with ants. So that was the end of that.

EXCEPT THAT IT WASN'T. I could not put the pitiful creature out of my mind. It preyed on my conscience with its mournful brown eyes and cringing expression epitomizing every dog ever used and abused by man, the "evolved and enlightened" species, the supposedly superior being.

I sneaked back to the gin at dusk three days later and sat quietly scanning the underbrush. A few minutes later, my patience was rewarded by the sound of an approaching animal. The dog lived! It was not too late. Hardly daring to breathe, I listened to the cracking of twigs until out of the bushes stepped ... Travis. We stared at each other.

"Have you seen it?" I said.

"No. But the turkey's gone, so that's a good sign, right?"

"Maybe. Or maybe a fox got it, or a coyote, or the ants hauled it off."

Travis frowned. "Ants couldn't have carried off all that meat."

"They can carry up to fifty times their own body weight, making them one of the strongest animals on Earth. You'd think they'd get more respect for it, but they don't."

"What should we do?"

I sighed. "I think we should go home."

He said, "I had a dream about that dog last night."

"Me too, but I'm all out of ideas."

As we turned to go, I caught a small movement along the inlet from the corner of my eye. I turned in time to see the very tip of a pointy nose withdrawn into a hollow in the embankment, partially hidden by an ancient, lightning-blasted pecan tree. Right at the site of Bandit's den.

"Travis," I hissed, "look over there. I think it's in Bandit's den below the dead pecan."

"Really?" He lit up like the sun.

"Maybe it was never Bandit's den at all. Maybe it's always been the coydog's den. Stay here and be quiet. I'm going to look for food. Don't move a muscle, don't make a sound."

He nodded, his face the picture of perfect happiness. I flew to the gin, where Mr. O'Flanagan was getting ready to lock up, chucking Polly under his chin (or chucking him where his chin would be if parrots had chins).

"Mr. O'Flanagan, can I please have some of your crackers?"

"Sure, darlin', take as many as you like."

I thanked him, scooped the contents of the bowl into my pinafore, and ran. He called out behind me, "Goodness, darlin', do they not feed you properly at home?"

It occurred to me for the first time that he probably found me a most peculiar child.

I slowed down to a stealthy creep as I approached the bank. No need to sound like a charging elephant. We'd probably frightened the thing enough for one day.

I showed the crackers to Travis, who looked dubious. "Will it eat those?"

"At this point I'm pretty sure it'll eat anything." I scouted the lay of the land. "Here, you hold on to the tree, and I'll hold on to you."

I crabbed partway down the bank, clutching Travis's hand tightly, then took careful aim with a cracker and landed it close to the hollow. I repeated the process, pitching each subsequent cracker a couple of feet farther away, making a trail I hoped would draw it out. Travis hauled me up the bank, and we sat down to wait.

A muzzle emerged, the scuffed nose twitching so furiously I could almost read the dog's mind: Was it edible? Was it a trap? And even if it was a trap, might it not be worth the risk for a mouthful of food?

It stepped halfway out, sniffing all the time. Travis and I sat frozen in place.

It lunged feebly at the cracker and bolted it down, then immediately withdrew into its den. We sat patiently while the beast decided whether the cracker had been worth it or not. Evidently so, as it emerged a minute later all the way out of its hole. In this way, we got our first close look at the poor creature, both repugnant and heartbreaking. The round scars and scabs across its hide looked to be birdshot. Was this the chicken thief that Mr. Gates had been buying shotgun sh.e.l.ls for? It stared warily at us; I rated its mood as somewhat anxious but no longer completely terrified by our presence. It limped to the next cracker and wolfed it down, then the next cracker and the next, glancing at us all the while. When it had finished, it investigated the scrub for more without luck.

Slowly, we rose to go, careful to make no sudden moves. The dog watched us but did not bolt for its den. Travis spoke to it in the encouraging sing-songy tones in which one addresses a pet or the very young or the very stupid: "Good doggy, there's a good doggy."

He was rewarded this time with a full-fledged wag, this way, then that, just like a real dog.

THE FIRST PERSON to figure out that Travis was still feeding an animal was, of course, Viola, the person in charge of the pantry. Travis and I knew the dog couldn't subsist on crackers for long, and if we actually wanted to improve its health, we'd have to snag it some meat. But this was not easy since Viola spent most of her time in the kitchen and we had to slip past her to get to the pantry. She always knew exactly how much meat and milk and bread, and how many eggs, she had on hand at any given moment, what with having to stay at least one meal ahead of three adults, seven growing children, a transplanted cousin, herself, and two hired help.

Travis and I debated the issue. I said, "I think the easiest thing to do is to ask for another half sandwich in your lunch pail. Then you can stop at the gin on the way home from school and feed him. Since you're taking food to school, it probably won't occur to her that you're feeding a dog."

"Gosh, Callie, you're so smart. And sneaky."

"Why, thank you."

We approached her during one of her rare moments of leisure between meals, sitting with a cup of coffee at the kitchen table.

Before I could even open my mouth, she squinted at us and said, "What do you want? What kind of critter you feeding now?"

"What?" I said, stunned at her prescience.

"How did you know?" burst out Travis, before I could muster a denial.

"Whenever I see you"-she pointed at me-"and you"-she pointed at Travis-"together in this kitchen, I know you're up to something. I know every crumb what's in this house, so don't think you can pull a fast one on me, you hear?"

We both stared at her. Maybe I wasn't so terribly smart or sneaky after all. Or maybe I was. I thought furiously about what tools were at hand, what pressures could be brought to bear.

"Okay," I said, "you caught us. It's for a starving cat at the gin."

Travis gaped at me, and I prayed he wouldn't give the game away.

Viola's face softened as I hoped it would. "A cat, huh?" She glanced at Idabelle, her dear companion, asleep in her basket.

"An awfully thin cat."

I looked at Idabelle.

She said, "Why don't it go after all them rats they got at the gin? Your daddy's always complaining about them rats."

"It's too weak to hunt. If we don't feed it soon, it's going to starve to death."

"Yeah," said Travis, "starve to death from, you know, not enough food. For a cat. To eat."

Ugh, what a terrible liar. I cut him off before he could say anything even more stupid. "And if questions ever came up from, um, anyone, the fact is that Travis is a growing boy, and you know how growing boys get hungry. An extra sandwich at lunch would tide him over, you know."

Viola cast another fond glance at her feline friend. "All right, starting tomorrow. Maybe sardines, maybe roast beef, we'll see. Now, scoot."

We scooted while we were ahead of the game.

The next day, Travis found an additional wax paper parcel in his lunch. Good thing it was roast beef instead of supremely smelly sardines, or no one would have sat next to him at lunch, probably not even Lula.

We stopped at the gin on the way home from school and climbed down the bank. Travis called softly, "Here, doggy, good doggy," and to our great satisfaction, the dog stuck its head out. I pitched the food, and it withdrew for a moment, then reappeared. It limped to the sandwich and wolfed it down.

Thus began Travis's new routine. I left him to it, with strict instructions to save the creature only until it got back on its feet, but otherwise leave it alone. Occasionally he ran into Father coming or going but Travis pretended he was exploring and playing along the bank; Father waved at him and went about his business. Most of the time, Travis spied the dog, although occasionally it was missing, causing him to worry that it had sickened and died. But it always showed up the next day. It slowly gained weight and recognized Travis's soft call of "Here, doggy, good doggy."

Then because I had so many other things to do, I stopped paying much attention. Honestly, you would think I'd have known better, given Travis's history with animals.

CHAPTER 17.

THE TRAVAILS OF IDABELLE AND OTHER CREATURES.

The Gauchos differ in their opinion, whether the Jaguar is good eating, but are unanimous in saying that cat is excellent.

I FOUND VIOLA stirring a pot of venison stew and frowning at Idabelle the Inside Cat, who was crouched in her basket next to the stove.

Viola said, "Take a look at that cat. You see anything wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"She's hungry all the time, but she's losing flesh. I think she's poorly."

Viola doted on Idabelle, who subsisted on mice and was generally a dab hand at catching more than enough to keep herself fat and happy.

Viola added, "I worry about that cat. She cries all the time." As if on cue, Idabelle rose, stretched, and began shuttling around my ankles in figure eights, yowling dolefully.

I picked her up to comfort her, and she felt lighter than expected. Oh no, not another sick animal. "I do think she's thinner," I said, feeling the ribs through the fur, which admittedly seemed to have lost some of its l.u.s.ter.

Viola looked distressed. "You think that animal doctor can help?"

Now, here was a novel idea. Veterinarians looked after the large animals and livestock that produced income. I'd never heard of a sick dog or cat getting professional attention; I doubted that anyone in the county would have dreamed of spending one thin dime on a pet. The animal would either get better on its own or die, and that was that.

I said, "I'll ask him. Maybe he will."

"You tell him I don't have no money but I can cook for him. You tell him I'm the best cook in town. Your momma will vouch for me. So will Samuel."

I retrieved the rabbit hutch from the barn that had housed Armand/Dilly. Travis was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if he had gone to the dog's den without me.

Trusting and placid, Idabelle had no idea what lay in store, and I was able to push her into the hutch and latch it before she could react. She sniffed delicately at the floor of her cage, no doubt picking up traces of its former inhabitant. Then she hunkered down and glared at me. I picked up the hutch, and she howled.

And kept on howling all the way to Dr. Pritzker's office, a good ten minutes away. Together, the hutch and cat were heavy, and I was sweating by the time I arrived at his door to find a note affixed: Gone to McCarthy's farm. Back at noon.

So I could wait a whole hour or trudge back with my unhappy burden. I tried the door, not expecting it to open but it did. The room was clean and furnished simply with a desk covered with papers, two straight-back chairs, a filing cabinet, and a gla.s.s-front cabinet filled with jars labeled with intriguing names: Nux Vomica, Blue Vitriol, Hemlock Water, Tartarized Antimony. There were a wooden exam table and a zinc counter where he apparently mixed and measured his drenches and elixirs and purgatives. And there was also a shelf full of fat books bound in worn leather.

I put the cage on the floor and sat down to wait. Idabelle's howling subsided to an occasional soft mew of hopelessness. There was nothing for me to do except speak soothingly to her and twiddle my thumbs for a whole hour. I kept this up for a good five minutes, staring hungrily at the books all the while. Then, well, the hard wooden seat got the better of me, and I had to get up to stretch my hindquarters. And then, well, the thick inviting books whispered to me, Come over here and take a look, Calpurnia. Just a look. Nothing more. Really. So I got up and examined the t.i.tles: Diseases of Cattle, The Complete Guide to the Domestic Sheep, Hog Fundamentals, Advanced Equine Husbandry. But nothing about cats or dogs, and certainly nothing about coydogs. Maybe Dr. Pritzker didn't know anything about felines or canines.

An hour later, I had learned that baby lambs often arrived in twos and sometimes even threes, and frequently got mixed up together in the birth ca.n.a.l, and it was the vet's job to sort out the tangle of three heads and twelve hooves all jumbled together. This required a gentle touch to avoid killing the ewe in the process. I was deep in the discussion of breech deliveries when the door opened, the bell clanged, and I jumped about two feet straight in the air, almost dropping the precious book.

Dr. Pritzker, covered in dust and manure, said with amus.e.m.e.nt, "So, Miss Calpurnia, are you learning something useful?"

"Uh, sorry, Dr. Pritzker, I-"

"No need to apologize. Your grandfather tells me you have a positive thirst for knowledge." He glanced at the rabbit hutch and said, "What have you got there? It looks like some new breed of rabbit I'm not familiar with."