Ash yelled over his wife’s shrieks. “Down!” From the corner of his eye, he saw Satterwhite running from the wagon, the rifle at his shoulder. “No! Don’t shoot! It’s my dog! Don’t shoot!” Finally getting a grip on the wriggling body straddling his chest, he shoved Tricks out of licking range and rolled to his feet. “You boggin’ noob!” he railed, wiping his dusty sleeve over his damp face. “I told you to stay.” Madeline let the stick of firewood she gripped in both hands drop to the dirt. “Th-that’s a dog?” “Aye.” He glowered at the animal grinning up at him. “An Irish wolfhound, and he’s but a wee pup, so he has much to learn. You won’t be needing that.” He motioned to the rifle in the old man’s hands. Satterwhite slowly lowered the rifle. “I’ve ridden smaller burros. The thing must be eight or nine hands high.” “Aye,” Ash said proudly. “The lad’s big for his age, so he is.” “B-But he attacked you.” His wife edged back from the panting dog, her brown eyes as round as buttons in her pale face.
