Pine tracked the lioness with the .30-06, tears still rolling down his cheeks, collecting in the groove between his cheek and the top of the stock. Frank understood that Pine wanted to shoot the lioness more than anything in the world, but if he did, then Sturm was liable to shoot him.

The lioness leapt. Sturm leaped forward, meeting the cat, slashing wildly with the knife. The cat swung one massive paw and opened Sturm’s skin from his left shoulder across his chest.

Sturm grunted and slammed the blade between the lioness’ ribs and they both went down in a cloud of sawdust. There was some kicking, twitching. Dust billowed out and hung in the air like early morning fog on the river.

Pine leaned forward, finger tight on the trigger, eyes blinking away the tears.

Sturm rose out of the dust, blood sheeting his torso. Dust stuck to the blood.

The lioness stayed down. It kicked. Rolled. Sturm crouched immediately, swiftly reversing the knife with one hand, whirling the blade under his forearm, and slit the big cat’s throat. Blood squirted out of the wound and soaked into the sawdust.

It was over.

Sturm faced the silent, shocked men. He raised his knife. Then the applause began, slow at first, but it didn’t take long before the men were stomping and whistling, screaming his name. Frank was surprised to find himself clutching the top bar, shouting, screaming really, no real words, just a pure release.

Sturm took a hesitant step towards his son, and dropped to his knees. Instantly, Jack scrambled over the bars and knelt next to him. Sturm’s white chest was now coated in scarlet dust. Blood sheeted the front of his jeans, down to his knees. It didn’t look like it was stopping. Sturm shot his left arm out and landed heavily on his flat palm, but he refused to drop the knife in his right hand.

Jack’s eyes found Frank, and Frank understood. He climbed into the ring and rushed to Sturm’s side, carefully rolling him onto his back. Frank realized they should have been ready, should have been prepared with bandages, some kind of first aid. But no one had expected Sturm to live.

And still the men had not let up; the screaming and shouting was deafening, shaking the auction yard, filling it with an almost palpable force that squeezed Frank’s head and doubled his vision as he looked down at Sturm’s white face, his lips pulled back, baring clenched teeth under wild eyes that glowed with a feverish light.

Deep down, Frank realized something had shifted, reversed. Sturm could not be allowed to die, not now, not ever. And if Frank didn’t save him, he’d find himself buried in a shallow grave somewhere out in the mountains that surrounded the town. So he placed both palms flat, pressing down hard, over the rip in Sturm’s chest. Direct pressure, his mind kept repeating, direct pressure. Frank shouted over the mindless screaming of the men at Theo and the clowns, “First aid kit, now! We need bandages, lots of gauze, and a needle and thread! Now!”

Throughout it all, Sturm wouldn’t let go of the Iron Mistress. He watched Frank with twitching, shivering eyes, but never said a word. Frank tried to move slowly, calmly; he was afraid that if he caused too much pain, moved too quickly and sharply, Sturm might bring that blade up and sink it in Frank’s neck.

But in the end, Frank stopped the bleeding.

DAY NINETEEN

Chuck dropped Frank off at the vet hospital around four in the morning. Chuck waved and tore off, wanting nothing more than to fall into his own bed in the trailer out behind the auction yard. Frank knew there was nothing left in his flask, but he upended it anyway, swallowed spit, then tucked it away in his jeans. His body felt stiff and aching from sitting in a kitchen chair for most of the night, watching over Sturm. His eyes felt like they’d been sandblasted open. He ran his tongue over his teeth, wondered if he would have enough energy to scrape away the slick coat of filth before falling onto the couch.

As he lurched across the lawn, a lilting, mischievous voice from above said, “You boys never just have a few beers and call it a night, do you?” Frank looked up and saw Annie’s strong brown legs swinging slightly from a thick branch about ten feet up. One flip-flop dangled from her big toe. The other was upside down on the grass. Frank winced when he thought of the possible needles in the lawn.

Frank was glad Chuck hadn’t seen her. Annie popped a gigantic bubble of flesh-colored gum, peeled it off her nose, and threw it into the planter filled with the dried husks of dead bushes. “Been waiting for you. Busy night?”

Frank nodded. “Waiting to see your dog?”

“That too,” she said, but didn’t elaborate as she nimbly rolled off the branch and hung there for a moment, arm muscles taut, breasts full, baring her belly. She let Frank take her in for a moment, then dropped to the ground.

“Careful,” he mumbled. “Needles.” His brain, fogged from the Jack Daniels, the heat, and full of visions of Sturm baring his teeth and slashing at the lioness with the Iron Mistress, wasn’t working right. The gears were trapped in tar. “Watch your feet. Needles.”

Annie crinkled her forehead and looked at him with bemusement. She was used to dealing with drunks.

This wasn’t going the way he had been hoping the last two weeks. Finally, he just said, “Let’s go on in and see her.” He fumbled for the keys while she worked her toes into the other flip-flop.

He got the front door open, and Petunia came barreling down the hallway, claws scrabbling on the linoleum. She stopped short when she saw Annie, hesitating only a half second before launching herself at the girl. Petunia hit Annie so hard she knocked the girl on her ass. The impact made Frank wince, but Annie just squealed in delight, closing her eyes and letting Petunia attack her face with her fat, wide tongue.

After a moment, Petunia backed off just enough to ram Frank’s knees with her broad head, her other way of showing affection. Frank wanted to offer Annie his hand, to help her up, but it felt weird, like it was too intimate, too fast. Christ, he thought. He felt like some sixth grader wondering how he should hold a girl for a slow dance.

If Annie felt uncomfortable, she didn’t act like it. She simply reached out and grabbed hold of the front of his belt and hauled herself up. Petunia bounced around like a happy rubber ball, pleased as punch with her two humans.

“She sure seems better. Can I take her home?” Annie asked, scratching wildly behind Petunia’s ears.

“I think so, yeah. No infection. She’s getting around fine. Just—be careful. Hate to think of her getting hurt again.”

“Don’t worry. My brothers and I have come to an understanding. I don’t want my dog to get hurt and they don’t want to be wearing their balls for earrings, so everybody’s happy.”

Frank didn’t know what to say; he didn’t want to end it, didn’t want to let her go. “Do you need a leash or anything?”

She laughed.

“Any dog food?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Well. She likes it when you scratch real hard at the base of her tail—right on top of the hips here.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been reading to her. I think she likes that. Mostly medical, vet stuff, but I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Frank squatted, pulled Petunia’s head in close, rubbing the top of her nose and stroking the loose folds at her throat. “Okay then little girl. You be good.” He kissed the top of Petunia’s flat, broad skull and stood up. “Take good care of her.”

Annie nodded, but her eyes were on the floor. She shifted back and forth, stuck her hands in her pockets, then pulled them out again just as quickly. Finally, chewing on her bottom lip, she met his eyes. “Hey. Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow, I mean, tonight?”