Rez Dog

By Tom Frye

When Ryder Dane and Travis Jackson end up in a fight in their school lunchroom, the juvenile judge sentences them to community service at a local dog retreat. There, Lakota dog handler Chade Long Soldier introduces the two boys to his guest of honor, a legendary Narco dog named Rocket. In the days leading up to the pit bull's retirement ceremony

• Language: English
• Publisher: White Cat
• Release date: May 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958557426

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE BLACK CAT sprang out into the street, a tiny kitten clutched in her mouth. Sixteen-year-old Ryder Dane cranked his wheel to avoid hitting her. The tires of his red Subaru wagon screeched as he swerved. His heart sank when he heard a solid thump!

Tears sprang to his eyes as his right front tire slammed into the curb. Ryder knew before his car came to a sudden stop that the cat and her baby were dead. Woodenly, he shut down the car. Rigidly, he brushed the long strands of his dark hair back and over his slender shoulders. Slowly, he closed his eyes. Silently, he wept.

Opening his door, he stuck out his left leg to inspect the tragedy he’d caused. He jumped in alarm when something brushed past his extended leg. Half blinded by tears, he saw the cat darting away, her kitten still clenched in her mouth. Not dead. Not smashed under his wheel. Somehow, she had dodged both front wheels.

Miraculously both cat and kitten were alive and well.

Ryder watched her as she carried her black kitten across a nearby yard, then disappeared inside a garden shed behind an old Victorian house. Two seconds later, the cat emerged from the shed where she’d left her kitten. She ran back across the street, darting toward the house on Ryder’s side of the street.

Disturbed by the demolition team on the front side of the dilapidated house, the cat warily eyed the men before shooting between the rotted boards of the porch before her. She reappeared, a tiny white kitten in her mouth. Again, she ran across the street and vanished inside the garden shed.

Ryder knew that should the need arise to intervene between her and oncoming cars, he surely would. Even if it meant running out into the street and waving his arms like a mad clown.

The momma cat raced past him a second time on her way back to the porch. She skidded to a stop as one of the demo workers in front of the house said, Countdown from 10, boys!

The cat slipped under the porch as the man shouted, 10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . . 7 . . .

Ryder stared in horror at the detonator in the man’s hand. He ran toward the house. At that moment, the momma cat poked her head out from between two boards, a orange kitten in her mouth. She took one startled look at Ryder and ran between his legs. He dropped to the ground and crab-crawled his way under the porch.

He was greeted by the sight of one last tiny black kitten heaped in a small ball before him. Kid? he heard from behind him. Get the hell out of there! The whole house is about to come down!

Ryder snatched up the kitten just as the man behind him latched onto his legs, yanking him out from under the porch. Springing up, he ran toward the street, the kitten cradled against his chest. Momma cat sat on the distant curb, anxiously eyeing her kitten in Ryder’s grasp.

A whumpf! came from behind him and the ground shook as the old house was reduced to a pile of broken timbers and shattered plaster. He crossed the street, momma cat trailing him to the shed twenty feet from the curb. He gently placed the tiny kitten beside her mother, and walked away, thinking of a recent book he’d read, Save the Cat, written by a screenwriter who claimed if your main character saved a cat from an untimely death in the first scene of your script, then your audience would invest emotionally in that character until Fade to Black.

Ryder Dane was an aspiring novelist. He once dabbled with being Emo, but that phase passed and left him with two things: his long black hair and a gold hoop in the lobe of his left ear. He was 5 feet 5, slender like his mom, and like his dad, he had blue Paul Newman eyes. His mom was Lakota, daughter of Crow Dog, chief and medicine man on Pine Ridge. His dad was all white man. Their marriage was filled with conflict. Ryder’s mom left his dad long ago.

As a social worker, his mom wanted to save the world. His dad just wanted to ride through life on his Harley, and the world could go to hell. His dad, known as the Dane, lived across the state in Scotts-bluff where he ruled over his biker club, the Saxons, with an iron fist. The Dane’s last visit was two days after Ryder’s fight inside the school lunchroom, which resulted in a black eye and a stint at com-munity services handed down by the juvenile judge.

The moment the Dane saw his eye, he’d said, You’ll earn more medals of honor on the day we initiate you into the Saxons!

Ryder had said, Great! An ass-whipping from a bunch of grungy bikers! I’ll be holding my breath until that day arrives, Dad!

Those words not only earned him a bruise on his right arm, but also the Dane’s scorn that Ryder wanted to write books the rest of his life. However, the chain of events that took place on that July morning in small town Seward, population 6,899, in eastern Nebraska, set the stage for the book he would one day write. For he not only saved a cat, he began a journey to save a dog as well.

Glancing at the fallen house, Ryder walked to his car. If I didn’t hit the cat, then what the hell did I hit?

He groaned as he peered at his flat tire. His poor little Subaru looked like a badly wounded buffalo, slumped over and resting against the curb. He thought, I’m gonna be late. Sheriff Buckley’s sure to report me being tardy for my duties down at the jail.

He walked around to the front of his car, searching for the source of the sound he’d heard earlier when he’d thought he struck the cat. He narrowed his eyes when he spotted a metal flask, obviously run over by one of his tires, for it had a dent in its side.

Kneeling in front of his car, Ryder picked up the dented flask.

Sudden movement caused him to glance toward the curb. Standing there with one hand outstretched toward him was a slender older lady with short-cropped silver hair. That’s mine! Give it to me!

Ryder hesitated to do as she demanded. The lady placed a sun-bronzed wrinkled hand on the flask, two of her fingers grazing his hand. She had fire in her gaze as she fixed Ryder with two of the most amazing green eyes he’d ever seen. She snorted, Are all boys in this hayseed town so rude? I asked you nicely—

Nicely? he said. You, lady, were anything but nice!

Put a cork in it! she snapped, the lines of her face crinkling up. Ryder was so startled by her sudden transformation that he released the flask. The older lady slipped the dented flask in the purse she had slung over one shoulder. Dressed in a faded Levi jacket and equally faded jeans, her black cowboy boots clicked together as she turned to walk away. You’re as bad as the cop who accused me of drinking!

Ryder said, Cops in our hayseed town take it seriously when intoxicated old ladies wander around here in the middle of the day.

She turned around. Intoxicated? Do I appear drunk to you, son?

Ryder said, If not, you sure make up for it with your crankiness.

He paused and added, Whoever you are.

Sebastian, she said. Ruby Sebastian. Rube to my close friends. I write about crime. My new book is about crimes in Nebraska.

Rube was dainty and slender as a rail, and yet something about her reminded Ryder of his own grandma, gruff and haughty. Only thing is Grandma Dane was religious and constantly shoved a three-layered meatball sandwich of God down his throat every time he visited her.

But this lady had a spark in her, and either she was mad about her dented flask or maybe just pissed off at the whole world.

Rube glanced behind her to the ruins of the house. You swerved to avoid hitting that cat, didn’t you? Earlier, I watched her carrying a kitten across the road. That is how my flask ended up in the street. I slid it underneath my car before getting grilled by the cop. It’s why I came back here. They can’t expect me to spend an afternoon with my admiring readers without support from Crown and Seven.

Ryder asked, Crown and Seven?

Rube smiled to take the bite out of her remark. Jesus, you’re not only a rude hayseed from Podunk town, you’re as dumb as a post!

When she asked how to find the sheriff’s department, Ryder said, I’ll show you if you take me there. I’m late for community service. Sheriff Buckley’s a stickler when it comes to being prompt. He’s a bully with a badge.

Rube said, Now I know why my guns aren’t at the bookstore. Power play by Sheriff Buckley. Your name and occupation, kid?

Ryder, he said. My only occupation is playing video games until I can’t see straight. But I have goals to be a writer.

She gave a real honest-to-God belly laugh. A Saturday afternoon at my lecture might put your goal to be a writer in perspective. I’m the author sponsored by the Chapters bookstore, here in town to speak.

Ryder said, So, I am riding with someone famous?

Don’t wet yourself, kid, Rube said. I ain’t no big deal.

Ryder asked, Why the guns? You expecting a hostile crowd?

Rube stared directly at him, silently appraising him. Why, the kid has a sense of humor. That was meant as a joke, right?

Ryder nodded at her.

Rube said, Some judge liked my book, Murder and Mayhem in Mayberry, so he issued an order to have the guns as visuals during my presentation. Don’t look so scared, no one’s trusting me with a loaded gun. They were used in this state’s notorious shootings. Starkweather. Bloody Mary. The Phantom Sniper. Murder and Mayhem will make you get up and make sure your doors are locked at night.

She reached down then and pulled out her dented metal flask from her black leather purse. Unscrewing the cap, she took a healthy chug. Rube then made the sign of the cross like a practiced Catholic, and said, Bless me Mother Goddess and prepare me for the cold-hearted lawman I am about to meet!

Ryder and Rube both skidded to a stop there on the curb as a car

sped past them in the street.

The driver flipped Ryder off. Ryder didn’t even see the kid.

CHAPTER TWO

FLICKING LONG, BLOND bangs out of his eyes, Travis glanced back at Ryder behind him. I hate that kid, he growled.

At sixteen, Travis Jackson was always speeding in his 1980 Mustang. But today he was driving to meet a deadline. If he failed to meet it, his dad, a criminal defense attorney, would be in serious trouble. In the past, Travis did not pay attention to his dad, widowed by the car accident that killed his wife and Travis’s mom a year ago. Since the fatal wreck, he and his dad had lived separate lives.

On this last case, however, Travis knew his dad represented a high profile drug dealer. The case involved a murdered informant and an outlaw biker gang from Scottsbluff, Nebraska.

Biker club, Ryder corrected him in the lunchroom that day when he’d confronted him. Not a gang, Jackson. They’re known as clubs.

Furious that Ryder had embarrassed him in front of the lunchroom crowd, Travis said, Clubs makes your old man sound like he runs a Boy Scout Troop. Is that the way it is, selling cookies to earn merit badges and having tent parties to compare muscle sizes?

Ryder calmly said, Why this sudden interest in my dad’s club? You want to join them? Because if you do, you got to have muscles in the first place to make those comparisons.

Laughter erupted among those seated nearby.

It was silenced as Travis snapped, My dad would have gotten this case dismissed if your dad wasn’t a snitch, Breed!

The slight had been used by Travis several times before. It was meant as an insult that Ryder was part Lakota, part white, and this time it had ignited a rage in Ryder. He had launched an attack. Ryder gave as good as he got in the five minute exchange. Travis had meant to end it by driving his fist into Ryder’s nose, but he used his forehead to block the shot, and Travis ended up with a badly jammed knuckle.

As a consequence, the juvenile judge of Seward sentenced the boys to community service at Haven Dog Retreat at the edge of town. Their duties: Taking care of a black and white pit bull, a legend at the DEA responsible for dozens of major busts along I-80. The boys were court-ordered to care for the dog until his retirement ceremony in honor of Rocket’s service as a sniffer dog was concluded.

Although Rocket was responsible for the confiscation of millions of dollars worth of drugs, Travis had heard so many horror stories of how vicious pits could be, he’d expected that the stoutly built dog would maul his face off the first time he’d leaned down to feed him.

He’d actually been surprised when Rocket simply peered up at him with a sad, forlorn look in his blue eyes. Colton Lone Wolf, owner of Haven, had said, He has better manners than most people. Trained on Pine Ridge, Rocket had a great Lakota handler. The command for him to eat is Chow. Try it, Travis.

Travis spoke the word, Chow, and Rocket began to chow down.

***

When Travis arrived at the dog barn, Rocket silently ghosted out of his open kennel, the black fur around his eyes resembling wings on either side of the white patch at the center of his forehead.

Travis said, Come. Rocket lowered his head and came to the boy at once. Sit, Travis said, placing the dog’s Halti on him. He looped it around and behind the dog’s head and over his nose, snapping it into place. It was not quite a muzzle, but instead a collar that control-led the dog by applying pressure to his nose. Colton, commonly known as Wolf, used the Halti on the dogs he trained at Haven, saying it was less restrictive than a typical muzzle.

Picking up the leash attached to the harness, Travis whispered, Got to get you outta here, Rocket. Before he gets here.

The moment he and Rocket exited the dog barn they were startled by a firm voice coming from the back porch: Just read the court order, sir. The awards ceremony has been cancelled. The dog is to be remanded to the custody of the State Patrol. Now, just go get him so I can get this show on the road, Chief.

Inching his way to his Mustang, Travis looked to Wolf standing there on his porch facing a lean Hispanic man in a black suit. Wolf’s jeans and black T-shirt fit his muscular frame like a second skin. He was clean-shaven and his raven hair trailed down his back in one long braid. The Lakota dog handler’s eagle-proud look bordered on defiance as he said, You claim you’re a Fed, yet you’re representing the State Patrol, Agent Ramirez?

The lean Hispanic man said, It is not out of the ordinary to be sent here at the request of a brother agency. Judge Sullivan—

Sullivan? Wolf asked. This order wasn’t issued by Sullivan. It says here, Judge Sheldon. You can’t even keep your story straight.

The ruff on the back of Rocket’s neck bristled as Ramirez snap-ped, I don’t give a damn if it was Judge Judy! You’re starting to get on my last nerve, Chief!

The Hispanic man pulled out a Taser and a pair of handcuffs. Travis looked on with concern as Ramirez handcuffed Wolf’s wrists to his porch rail. Travis studied Ramirez, his collar-length hair so black it shone like a raven’s wing in sunlight. His hair matched his black, shark-like eyes. A slight scar ran down from his right temple, ending below his jaw line.

Ramirez said, Your dad told me this dog trainer was headed to Lincoln to pick up a dog. He was supposed to be gone by now.

Travis looked up to meet Wolf’s gaze. The confusion he saw in his eyes caused him to cringe. He said, I have no choice. Alvarez demands the dog. He threatened to kill my dad if we did not comply.

Ramirez waved his gun at Travis. We’ll take your car, kid.

We? Travis said. I was just told to hand over the dog.

Ramirez demanded, Get the dog in the car!

Come! Travis urged Rocket, and he and the pit started toward his car parked on the far side of the lot. On the porch rail, Wolf offered Ramirez a look of defiance, then said, Down!

At once, the huge dog came to an abrupt halt, sprawling there like a stone statue, causing the leash in Travis’s hand to go taut. The sudden stop jerked Travis back off his feet. He collided with the immovable dog banging his head and seeing stars. Ramirez growled as he lunged at Wolf seated on the rail.

With that, he jabbed him in the chest with the prongs of his Taser. Wolf slumped down over the rail, held up only by his cuffed wrists.

In a slight daze from his collision with Rocket, Travis ushered the dog into the back seat of his Mustang. He passed the keys to Ramirez and climbed in back with Rocket. The car roared to life and Ramirez left a cloud of dust behind them as he tore out of Haven’s parking lot.

Ramirez said, That dog uses his head like that on Caligula, he may win that fight Alvarez arranged. Biggest dog fight in the state, featuring some killer pit owned by a gangster from Denver. Cosmic justice is what Alvarez applied to this strike for dealers all over the country. He orchestrated this. Rocket cost three cartels millions of dollars. Whisked from under the nose of the cops before this awards ceremony will be a snub to them. Evidently, watching a Narco dog get ripped to shreds by this killer pit appeals to the drug lords.

He laughed wickedly. Most bets so far have been on Caligula, but some are betting on this black and white Goliath. Including me, now that I’ve seen the beast.

Travis closed his eyes and felt Rocket scoot closer to him.

He said, My dad is such a loser to be associated with a dealer like Alvarez. It’s pathetic.

CHAPTER THREE

RYDER AND RUBE entered the sheriff’s department together. He left the older lady standing before the wooden counter at the entrance to the office. Good luck with the Buck, Ryder said, picking up a laminated security badge from the counter.

Glenda Banks, the receptionist for the sheriff’s department, reprimanded Ryder on his way to do his duties. You’re late, young man, and you know Sheriff Buckley hates it when you call him that.

Rube demanded, You should be addressing me, Belinda!

Blinking like an owl in bright sunlight, the rotund woman, her poofy hair piled on top of her head like a gaggle of garter snakes, turned her gaze on Rube. It’s Glenda! she said. Not Belinda!

Rube snorted, Belinda fits you just fine, if anything does on that caboose you carry. Fetch the Sheriff. Move that big bottom of yours to tell him the author from the Badlands of Nebraska is here!

Sheriff Buckley appeared in the doorway behind her. Tall with short-cropped salt and pepper hair and a thick black mustache, Dennis Buckley was lean and trim. His brown uniform fit him well, giving him a professional look. Having once served in Iraq, Dennis ran his office like it was a military embassy smack dab in the middle of quaint and quiet Seward. He treated his