purposefully antagonized his pit bull.
"I've known it to happen."
"Little wonder. They put them in that pit to die."
Cash continued to watch her, even after the dogs had launched another attack on each other. The noise in the tin building began to mount in proportion to the violence going on in the ring. The Saturday night crowd had filled the hall to capacity. Men and dogs were sweating profusely. The dogs waiting to fight sensed the tension. They smelled the blood and anticipated tasting it. They barked with ferocious and crazed intent from their wire cages.
The crowd's sudden gasp drew Cash's attention back to the pit. This time, more than blood had been drawn. Hide and tissue had been ripped from the shoulder of the dog opposing Jigger's. Once the initial shock passed through the crowd, a cheer went up. Jigger's dogs were usually favored to win. Hard-eamed wages were riding on this fight and the gamblers holding those vouchers smelled victory.
So did Jigger's dog. It went after its foe with renewed vigor. It sank its teeth into the other dog's neck and tore out a chunk of flesh, severing the jugular. Blood spurted from the wound and splattered the slat walls of the pit.
Schyler covered her mouth and turned her head away again. Cash's left hand came up reflexively, cupped the back of her head, and pressed her face into the crook of his shoulder. His right arm slid around her waist and drew her closer. He glanced over his shoulder and cursed viciously when he saw that the crowd had doubled since their arrival. Between them and the exit was a squirming, shouting sea of men with necks craned to see the finish of the fight.
Schyler couldn't breathe, but that was all right because she didn't want to. The walls of the crowded auditorium pressed in on her, The unventilated air was fogged with the smoke from hundreds of foul cigars. The stifling heat concentrated the unpleasant smells until she tasted them with each breath she drew. Sweat, dog, smoke, blood.
Her fingers curled inward and came up with a handful of Cash's shirt. "Please."
The hoarsely spoken appeal went through him like a rusty nail. It touched a soft spot that he thought had calloused over forever when he was in Nam, where seeing men die was a daily occurrence.
"Hold on. I'll get you out of here."
Caring little now for her pride, Schyler clung to him, listening to his heartbeat in the hopes that it would drown out the yelling of the maniacal, bloodthirsty crowd. It was a futile hope. When the mortally wounded dog fell, the racket reached a crescendo that was deafening.
"Okay, that's it. But take a good look, Schyler, at what you're up against."
Cash hooked a finger beneath her chin and forced it up. In the pit, Jigger was leading his dog around by a leash while receiving accolades from the crowd. The dog's coat was lathered and smeared with blood. Flynn's gloating smile sickened Schyler more than the blood and gore.
When she turned toward Cash, her face was pale. He said to her, "That animal isn't a pet. It's a machine trained to kill. It's a moneymaker. If you harm one of his dogs, Jigger will kill you."
He waited a moment, to make certain she had understood, then he leaped off the end of the bleacher and extended his arms up for her. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she let him lift her down. Holding her close against him and trying to shield her with his own body, he shouldered his way toward the exit. It was bottlenecked with men either coming in or going out, counting their winnings or cursing fate for their defeat, congratulating or commiserating with each other.
From out of that mass of bodies Schyler heard, "Jesus Christ, Schyler, what the fuck are you doing here?"
Chapter Eleven
She stopped, turned in the direction of the familiar voice, and stood still while the crowd eddied around her, Cash, and Ken Howell. Her brother-in-law was looking at her through eyes that were red and glazed by alcohol. Slack-jawed, he gaped at her
"I've known it to happen."
"Little wonder. They put them in that pit to die."
Cash continued to watch her, even after the dogs had launched another attack on each other. The noise in the tin building began to mount in proportion to the violence going on in the ring. The Saturday night crowd had filled the hall to capacity. Men and dogs were sweating profusely. The dogs waiting to fight sensed the tension. They smelled the blood and anticipated tasting it. They barked with ferocious and crazed intent from their wire cages.
The crowd's sudden gasp drew Cash's attention back to the pit. This time, more than blood had been drawn. Hide and tissue had been ripped from the shoulder of the dog opposing Jigger's. Once the initial shock passed through the crowd, a cheer went up. Jigger's dogs were usually favored to win. Hard-eamed wages were riding on this fight and the gamblers holding those vouchers smelled victory.
So did Jigger's dog. It went after its foe with renewed vigor. It sank its teeth into the other dog's neck and tore out a chunk of flesh, severing the jugular. Blood spurted from the wound and splattered the slat walls of the pit.
Schyler covered her mouth and turned her head away again. Cash's left hand came up reflexively, cupped the back of her head, and pressed her face into the crook of his shoulder. His right arm slid around her waist and drew her closer. He glanced over his shoulder and cursed viciously when he saw that the crowd had doubled since their arrival. Between them and the exit was a squirming, shouting sea of men with necks craned to see the finish of the fight.
Schyler couldn't breathe, but that was all right because she didn't want to. The walls of the crowded auditorium pressed in on her, The unventilated air was fogged with the smoke from hundreds of foul cigars. The stifling heat concentrated the unpleasant smells until she tasted them with each breath she drew. Sweat, dog, smoke, blood.
Her fingers curled inward and came up with a handful of Cash's shirt. "Please."
The hoarsely spoken appeal went through him like a rusty nail. It touched a soft spot that he thought had calloused over forever when he was in Nam, where seeing men die was a daily occurrence.
"Hold on. I'll get you out of here."
Caring little now for her pride, Schyler clung to him, listening to his heartbeat in the hopes that it would drown out the yelling of the maniacal, bloodthirsty crowd. It was a futile hope. When the mortally wounded dog fell, the racket reached a crescendo that was deafening.
"Okay, that's it. But take a good look, Schyler, at what you're up against."
Cash hooked a finger beneath her chin and forced it up. In the pit, Jigger was leading his dog around by a leash while receiving accolades from the crowd. The dog's coat was lathered and smeared with blood. Flynn's gloating smile sickened Schyler more than the blood and gore.
When she turned toward Cash, her face was pale. He said to her, "That animal isn't a pet. It's a machine trained to kill. It's a moneymaker. If you harm one of his dogs, Jigger will kill you."
He waited a moment, to make certain she had understood, then he leaped off the end of the bleacher and extended his arms up for her. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she let him lift her down. Holding her close against him and trying to shield her with his own body, he shouldered his way toward the exit. It was bottlenecked with men either coming in or going out, counting their winnings or cursing fate for their defeat, congratulating or commiserating with each other.
From out of that mass of bodies Schyler heard, "Jesus Christ, Schyler, what the fuck are you doing here?"
Chapter Eleven
She stopped, turned in the direction of the familiar voice, and stood still while the crowd eddied around her, Cash, and Ken Howell. Her brother-in-law was looking at her through eyes that were red and glazed by alcohol. Slack-jawed, he gaped at her
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