Buster Hill Chased His Dog

Abstract

ONE AFTERNOON, Buster Hill reached a hand out of his front porch hammock and discovered the bulldog pup he had named Buster, after himself, was no longer there. He awoke with a start and found the pup was running across the front lawn. It stopped by the paved road in front of the house and stood on its hind legs. Goddamnit, Buster! Buster Hill shouted. The dog was dancing around eagerly, looking south down the street. Buster Hill looked after him through the unmoving shadows of the cottonwoods toward the hot dust of Main. A long blue Pontiac sedan with California license plates and a woman at the wheel slowed in front of Buster's curb. The door swung open a crack and, as the story goes, that bulldog jumped right in. The blue car sped off down the street. Across the street, Mary Carlson said it wasn't so much the dog barking that made her look up from her iced tea as the sound of Buster Hill lumbering past, grunting like a wounded razorback. The blue car signaled for a left turn onto the Baseline road. It turned again like it would double back along Grove toward Main. Buster Hill broke through Mary Carlson's white picket gate, goring himself as he leaped over the backyard fence. He ran limping through a parking lot behind the house. The car made a right turn onto Main Street toward the, highway. Buster Hill caught up to the car at the intersection. He bounced along beside the fender. He was shouting loudly enough that Deputy Ben Johnson and a few old boys scooted off their stools at The Cove Cafe. They watched through the new picture window of The Cove as Buster Hill was leaping sideways down the street, bouncing high alongside that car like a man on a springboard. He shouted at an unknown, dark haired woman, That's my My goddamned My damned dog! He was stricken. He spun around like a quick whirlwind had seized him in mid-air and then released him; his huge bulk heaved face first dead in the middle of the street. Deputy Ben Johnson hustled out of The Cove and made sure Buster Hill was dead. That blue car turned north onto the highway. Deputy Johnson ran off to wake Sheriff Meeker out of his afternoon doze at the municipal saloon. Sheriff Meeker stood for a long time over Buster Hill's immense carcass, still red-faced and sweating. Sheriff Meeker looked unsteadily toward the highway, muttering under his breath. He spat, turned, straightened up reasonably. He walked back across the street for the gun he had left on the hatrack at the saloon. He was still strapping the gun on, standing in the double doors of the saloon, when he stopped a minute, belted down a shot and tossed the glass back in to Delores Moss. When he reached the middle of the street, he stopped again. he shouted. Delores! Fetch me them keys! Delores Moss threw