At the same moment, she became aware of a strange odor, as if a foul-­smelling acid had been vaporized in the air nearby. Sharky had sensed it before she did! It was making him cower and cringe now, in a way she had never seen. The dog was pressing his shaking body against her legs, whining pitifully. She lifted his body to hug and comfort him, but to her shock, he bared his teeth, snapped at her, and raked her forearm with his claws.

Crying out in surprise and pain, Bonnie dropped Sharky to the ground. “What’s got into you?” The dog faced her viciously. From the friendly, docile pet she had known, he became a snarling, ferocious-­looking beast. Seriously ­frightened, Bonnie backed away slowly. The beads of blood on her arm might be evoking some primitive instinct of attack. Dogs were descendants of wolves. With genuine alarm, Bonnie grabbed up the aluminum picnic box and held it in front of her breast for protection.

But Sharky transformed again. With quick, rough barks of furious challenge, he launched himself away from Bonnie into the deep woods toward the hissing noise.

Moments later, Bonnie was riveted by a change in Sharky’s barking. There was an abrupt high yelping, then a cry of acute agony. Bonnie shivered, trying to see the dog through the heavy growth. She stepped out of the grove gingerly. If there was an animal out there that could hurt Sharky, it could hurt her. But she had to know what had happened. The dog could simply have gotten into a patch of burrs, though that wouldn’t account for his erratic conduct earlier.

One careful step after another led Bonnie Taylor along the umbrageous path that went toward the dump. The way was through great mounds of springy leaves, the residue of scores of Yarkie autumns, undisturbed through the years except by occasional deer and the smaller denizens of the woods, raccoons, muskrats and the like.

Bonnie halted to listen. There was only silence now. Even the birds were quiet, she observed. No leaf rustled; there was no hissing sound, no dog noise, no motion anywhere that she could detect.

Then she heard the whimpering, a gasping for breath. It sounded almost human, but it was Sharky, certainly, somewhere near. Bonnie took a determined step in the direction of the soft cries, only to be stopped by the loud hissing. It was like an angry warning, a command for her to stay back.

With all her voice, Bonnie called, “Sharky! Sharky! Here, Sharky!” She bent for a fallen branch. Her mouth tightened with purpose. She would find Captain Johnson’s dog, and she would protect herself against whatever was lurking in the dark copses into which he had disappeared.