See Also Murder by Larry D. Sweazy Page A

Maybe next summer, once things settled down . . .
    My stomach growled with hunger, and I realized that I’d passed up lunch while I was in Dickinson; I rarely missed a trip to the Ivanhoe for some of the best sandwich bread to be found anywhere in North Dakota, or beyond I guess. I wouldn’t know for sure since I’d never crossed the state line outside of a couple of quick trips west, into Montana.
    The Salems had staved off any real hunger, which I guess was one of the reasons why some women smoked them in the first place. It kept them thin and attractive and replaced the habit of eating the hearty meals we cooked for our husbands before sending them out the door to do a hard day’s work. I suppose that had been a reason for me, too, but since Hank didn’t like me smoking, especially since the accident, I’d taken to hiding from him when I did.
    I hoped Ardith would join me for a quick sandwich and a cup of coffee before she left. Her car, a ten-year-old black Ford sedan, sat right where she had parked it.
    I was halfway down the drive when Shep suddenly appeared, running out from behind the first barn, a streak of black and white, head and body low to the ground, barking at the Studebaker like he’d never seen the truck in his life. It wasn’t a hello bark, or at least the normal bark that the diligent border collie usually offered me when I returned home from town.
    The dog ran straight at the truck like he was going to nip the tires. I couldn’t recall a time when Shep had tried to herd me while driving the truck. It was like he was trying to drive me away, force me to turn around and leave. I’d seen him attempt the same thing on Wally Howard, on occasion, when Wally’d had to deliver a box to the door; usually page proofs from New York.
    At the very least, I had expected Shep to be happy to see me. It was rare that I was away from the house, from Hank, for so long.
    â€œSilly dog,” I said out the window. “Go on, get out of the way before I run you over.” The thought of hurting Shep caused a tremor of fear to ripple all the way from my heart to the tips of my fingers.
    My tone was obviously too light. It didn’t deter Shep at all. My words just seemed to infuriate him. He barked his fool head off even louder, then lunged at the front tire, biting at it so close that it truly scared me. I stopped the truck right then and there.
    As soon as the tires quit rolling, Shep circled around the truck, barking continually, ears back, an unusually aggressive snarl on his upturned lip. Something had set him off, and I didn’t like it.
    There had never been any question that one of Shep’s jobs was to keep a lookout, be a guard dog of sorts, but his quarry was mostly foxes and coyote. His real job was to keep the chickens safe since we’d long ago given up on sheep, even though he thought his job was to keep the chickens in order. If I wasn’t paying any attention, he’d keep them trapped in the corner of the pen for half a day. Shep would have made a great indexer if he were a human being.
    Up until a day ago, there had been no reason to hold onto any fear at all about strangers coming onto the land. Most farm folks, or those in town as far as that went, had never locked their doors in their entire life.
    I shut the engine off and sat in the truck for a long second, eyeing everything in sight. Nothing seemed out of place except Shep’s behavior. But even that could be explained away. Border collies were an overprotective, obsessive breed, and sometimes it didn’t take much to set them off. Timing was everything; a move, a look, a word spoken the wrong way could trigger a sort of madness that required a stern but gentle hand to quell. I had seen Shep act like this before, but it had been a long time ago—back before Hank stepped into that damned gopher hole. It was usually only Hank who could calm the dog down, but I knew it would