Page 107 of In These Hills

“You haven’t got,” Dodge corrected. “And you know good and well cougars haven’t been sighted in these hills for years. Leave Mrs. Dunham be and let her get her first shot off without—”

Josephine took a breath and slowly exhaled—exactly as she’d read yesterday in A Course of Instruction in Rifle Firing by Colonel T. T. S. Laidley in the library, Dodge’s margin notes fresh in her mind—and squeezed the trigger.

Time stilled. Then ping. A can went flying!

It was all she could do not to jump and shout. Instead she turned, heart pounding, to see disbelief on both their faces.

“You’ve done this before!” Bethie accused.

“I promise, I haven’t. But your excellent instruction . . . and Mr. Coburn’s notes in the margins of Colonel Laidley’s book helped me immensely.”

A hesitant smile tipped Dodge’s mouth, tugging her thoughts in a direction they had no business going. She looked away.

“Try it again!” Bethie pointed toward the fence.

“Bethie, don’t be rude. Mrs. Dunham hit that fair and square. Who knows, maybe she’s a natural like you are.”

“I don’t think so, Uncle Dodge. I think it was luck!”

Bethie stared from Josephine to the cans and back, and Josephine, not at all certain she could hit another can, turned back around, took aim and fired. And missed.

“See? I told you it was luck! She can’t—”

Josephine trained the rifle’s sight on the next tin can and fired. It went flying, and Bethie went quiet. The exhilaration of shooting, the feel of the weapon in her grip, and having actually hit two of three cans gave her surprising confidence. She glanced at Bethie whose raised brow was clearly a dare to try again, when Jessie started barking.

Josephine turned, expecting to see the dog having spotted a squirrel or even a butterfly. But Jessie stood rigid, hackles raised, staring into the brush. And that’s when Josephine heard it.

Deep, guttural grunts. Dry leaves crunching underfoot.

“Bethie, Josephine,” Dodge said low. “Get to the wagon!”

They turned to go, but the grunting and snorting sounded again. This time coming from a different direction, louder and closer. Jessie ran toward it, barking.

“Jessie! Come!”

The dog looked back at Dodge, then at the grass near the wagon as it began to stir.

Bethie grabbed the rifle from Josephine and took aim.

“No, Bethie! Your .22 won’t stop it. Both of you get to a tree. Run!”

Bethie took off. Josephine followed as snorts and pounding hooves tore through the thicket, feral squeals making her skin crawl.

“Can you climb?” Bethie yelled.

“With the best of them!” Josephine answered, spotting a low-limbed oak. “I’ll help you up!”

“I don’t need your help!”

In a flash, Bethie scaled a low oak limb, somehow still clutching the rifle. Josephine, skirts hiked, scrambled up beside her—when Bethie slipped and fell, hitting the ground hard, the rifle skidding away.

“Bethie!” Josephine jumped down just as the wild boar burst through the brush a few yards away, tusks flashing.

“Get up there!” Dodge yelled.

Bethie cradled her right arm. “I can’t climb up!”

“Oh yes, you can!” Josephine picked her up and shoved her onto the branch. Thin as Bethie was, the girl’s weight still proved a challenge. Muscles burning, Josephine hauled herself up just as the crack of a rifle—and Bethie’s scream—split the air.