On the ground a few feet away lay an airedale puppy’s head, pelt, feet, tail, insides, and a lot of blood.
There were some dry sticks, broken in convenient lengths, beside the fire. I put them on as Ringgo came out of the woods to join me. He carried a stone the size of a grapefruit in his hand.
“Get a look at him?” he asked.
“No. He laughed and went.”
He held out the stone to me, saying:
“This is what was chucked at us.”
Drawn on the smooth gray stone, in red, were round blank eyes, a triangular nose, and a grinning, toothy mouth—a crude skull.
I scratched one of the red eyes with a fingernail, and said:
“Crayon.”
Ringgo was staring at the carcass sizzling over the fire and at the trimmings on the ground.
“What do you make of that?” I asked.
He swallowed and said:
“Mickey was a damned good little dog.”
“Yours?”
He nodded.