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somebody.”
    “I’ll look into it.”
    “You’d better. I might have to go visit him myself one night soon if you don’t.”
    “Tom, you’d do well to stay away from him, if you know what’s good for you.”
    “I’ve already said it once, and I’ll say it again. My hog dog was loose. He broke his chain on the day of the attack. I’d bet a hundred-dollar bill whoever attacked my wife had a patch of skin bit out of his ass.” Tom pointed to Jubal where he lay under the tree in the dirt, a thick chain hooked to his big leather collar. The sun was almost down, and the dog seemed to watch the men out of the corner of his eye. Jubal’s coat was red-brown like a rich roux and spotted with black, crimson, and white splotches. He had one glass eye that was blue and the other was mud-brown, and his overall build was more in line with a bulldog than a Catahoula. He wasn’t an anxious or barking dog, never making much noise around the house, and the other cur dogs were kept far past the barn in a series of net wire pens, but Jubal was always chained near the front of the house under a shade tree to serve as a deterrent to trespassers. If he had broken loose, he would have nailed any stranger who entered the yard planning mischief. Tom believed this fervently. The chain was snapped near his collar for a specific reason, and Tom knew the dog broke the chain to protect his wife.
    “Well, it’s just another thing to look into,” said the marshal.
    “I’ve already told your assistant Wentworth, and I also spoke to a deputy sheriff in Ruthberry by the name of Roberts.”
    Brownlow looked away, toward the road. He didn’t say anything.
    “My best guess is the son of a bitch that did this has a big patch of skin missing out of his ass or leg or arm or somewhere from trying to fight off the dog. Jubal’ll bite the fire out of anybody except me and my wife and boy, James Luke and Nelda Cate, Corrine Travis, and maybe Martina and Sid Hardin. That’s about it. He tries to bite folks, and that’s why I keep him on the logging chain when I’m not able to watch him close.”
    “Like I told you, I’ll look into it.”
    “You do that.”

CHAPTER SIX

    The sky was gray and dark, as if the clouds were begging to rain. It was Sunday afternoon. Tom and Wesley had dressed for the church services earlier in the day, but Tom decided against going.
    He walked to the open backdoor and looked down at the boy who was rubbing Jubal’s ears. Wesley rubbed the dog’s head and he seemed pleased, his tail wagging. The boy sat on the back steps dressed in a pair of khaki trousers and a khaki shirt like an aged farmer.
    Tom stared down at the boy and remembered how he and Sara didn’t think they’d be able to have a child of their own. After they’d been married two years and no pregnancy occurred, they went to see a doctor in Pickleyville. The doctor said Tom was almost completely sterile. It was scarcely possible that they’d ever conceive. But then after their third year of marriage, they had a son, and he saw it as a miracle from God, evidence of the Lord’s graciousness and answered prayer.
     “When will Mother come home?” Wesley asked.
    “Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after,” Tom said.
    “Is Aunt Corrine going to stay at the hospital with her tonight?”
    “Yes, she’s there now. Then I’ll relieve her for a while later, and afterward she’ll come back and stay there for the night.”
    “Can I go with you to the hospital?”
    “No, they won’t let you go into the room.”
    “Why?”
    “You’re too young. I’ve already covered this ground with you about the hospital rules.”
    “Pops, who hurt her?”
    Tom was startled. This was the first indication that Wesley knew something truly dreadful had happened to his mother, and she was not simply ill. “Where did you hear that somebody hurt her?”
    “School. I heard Mrs. Maxine Bennett whispering to Mrs. Jennings.”
    Tom wondered exactly how much he knew.