Title: Dogs Characters: Mal’s words, the rest are OCs Pairing: None Rating: M Words: 992 Disclaimer: Obviously. No money, just words. Cross posted in livejournal's ff_friday.

Wild dogs had been worrying the stock again, slinking even into the calf yards and across the roof of the hen house. Young Emmy Beckon had shot one on Tuesday that had tried for her fat baby, lamb like in the dust as his mother had been taking in the washing. Since Jackson left for the War, she had been carrying his old revolver in her pinny pocket, and plugged that dog right between the eyes cool as you please. It was only later that Angelica Reynolds had held her as she quaked for fear of what might have happened.

Damn dogs were getting too bold. Forgetting their place.

Angelica sat still as the stars on the porch of the old ‘stead, rifle flat across her knees and cool in her hands. The letter that had come that day was smoothed across her lap under the notched wooden stock, crinkled from travel and re-folding. The after-sunset chill made her bones ache a little, and she had to squint to see through the dark. It was really only a matter of pride that she was sitting up like this, seeing as how there were ten other rifles faster than hers out there in the darkness as well. None of her boys would dare gainsay her when she declared that she would wait up for the dogs as well, although Henry gave her a significant glance and suggested she take position on the porch. Where the rocking chair was. That was the shape of things now. All the young ones were gone, leaving only the women and the silverhairs behind, shooting dogs instead of purplebellies, sitting in rocking chairs instead of trenches.

The front door opened behind her, and Emmy slipped out to sit on the boards beside the chair, revolver glinting in her hand. The young woman had moved to the main house for a while until the dogs could be taken care of, and Angelica was glad of the company. Her fingers were stiff from years of work and injury, and Emmy’s brown bread was something to wake up to in the mornings. A body could get used to having intimate company again, now that Mal was gone to war. She wanted to read it again, but there wasn’t enough light cast. She didn’t really need light to read the stark tidings though. Mal had never minced his words.

A quick movement out by one of the buildings caught her eye but it was just Pete checking on the house dogs, tied in the small barn to prevent them getting shot by mistake. The old woman squinted out into the darkness, following his course, listening to him giving low endearments to the hounds.

“You ought to be in with your young’un, Emmy,” Angelica said quietly. “Cain’t,” the young woman replied. “Gotta wait up fer the dogs with ya. Cain’t sleep tonight. Too riled up after hearing ‘bout Jackson moving on to Hera.” Angelica nodded and reached down to squeeze the girl’s shoulder. The bitter cellulose paper in her lap made a smooth rustling sound as she did so. Emmy looked over at it, then up at the older woman’s face.

“Reuben brung the mail this evenin’ from town, Emmy,” Angelica said quietly. She felt the girl tense under her palm, and she squeezed again. “Brung a letter from Mal. Reckon you might need to read it.” She slid it out from under her rifle and let Emmy take it from her hand. “Go on inside now, girl.”

Angelica felt Emmy’s fingers shaking as she fumbled the letter, rose and took two slow steps toward the door. She heard the girl pause. “I’ll be right out here, just me and these gorram dogs,” Angelica reassured her. She heard the door open and close behind her.

After a silent minute, she heard an agonized moan from inside, and sparse rifle fire from the western outbuildings. A shout went up and a dark shape, running long and low to the ground left the shadows and blundered across the yard in front of her. Swift as she had when she was young, Angelica raised the rifle to her shoulder and squeezed off a shot. She was rewarded by a yelp and a skidding sound as the dog hit the dirt. She hit the porch light and went down the steps to finish the job.

It was young, barely out of puppyhood, and she had shot it in the hind leg. It jerked and quivered, trying to run, and bared its teeth at her where she stood watching it. The porchlight made weird shadows across its hide. She heard Emmy crying out her denial in wavering tones from inside the house, and the baby’s reedy protest to being wakened. The dog yelped and whined again, dragging itself across the dirt. Another rifle shot, closer this time.

No, Mal never minced words. “Angelica, you okay?” Henry came toward her out of the gloom. “Just fine, Henry,” she replied. She raised her rifle once more and shot the dog between the eyes.

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“Dear Ma, This might be the last time I write for a while. I’m on Hera, place called Serenity Valley. Hell of a name for this place. Alliance forces are killing us like dogs and treating the bodies that way too. Bodies pile up around us and we gotta use them as shelter. Yesterday I came face to face with Jackson Beckon, as a bunch of us got pinned down on the field. He was dead, been dead for a few days I think. Make sure you tell Emmy. Also tell Henry that I think I saw his boy Nate in there as well. Never thought Jackson would save me from anything, but damned if he didn’t save me and mine from some heavy artillery racket for most of the day. Tell Emmy he looked pretty to the end. Better she thinks that. Nothing much is pretty about dead bodies…”