Page 3 of Blood Moon

“Katie.” Holding a lantern out in front of him, Levi Miller motions to the man leaning against the wheel. “He’s been bitten. It looks bad.”

While Skid inspects the damaged buggy, I turn my attention to Beachy. He’s about thirty years old. His sparse beard tells me he’s newly married. He’s disheveled, the knees of his trousers caked with mud.

I identify myself. “Can you tell me what happened, Mr. Beachy?”

He raises blue eyes to mine. “Something spooked my horse out to the old bridge there on Dog Leg Road.” He speaks with a typical Amish-English accent that’s thick with an upward lilt on the vowels. “I was thrown from the buggy.” He blinks as if not sure exactly how to put into words what happened next. “As I was getting up, something came at me out of the dark. It slashed my leg with its teeth and shook me the way a dog shakes a rabbit.”

“What type of animal?”

He blinks, opens his mouth and closes it. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “It was about the size of a young bear, I guess.”

I stare at him, looking for signs of impairment, but his eyes are clear, his speech concise, and his expression is infused with fear.

“So you didn’t get a good look at it?” I ask.

“It was dark, you know. The fog’s pretty thick down there by the creek.” His eyes skate away from mine, and I know there’s more coming. After a moment, he sighs and he forces his gaze back to mine. “Chief Burkholder, whatever came at me was large and strong and … vicious. It had … fangs. I think it might’ve killed me if I hadn’t gotten away.”

“Mr. Beachy, could it have been a coyote? Or stray dog?”

“This was no coyote or dog. It was … two or three hundred pounds. Fast, too. And it just … kept coming.”

Not sure what to make of the description, I shift my flashlight beam to the lower part of his leg. Surprise ripples through me at the amount of blood that’s soaked through the fabric. His trousers are torn from the back of his knee nearly to the hem. Someone has wrapped a red bandana around the calf, but blood has seeped through.

I raise the first aid kit. “Do you mind if I take a look at that injury?”

“I’m kind of curious myself.” Smiling uncomfortably, he shifts, giving me access to the back of his calf. “I’m starting to feel it now.”

“A lot of blood,” says Tomasetti, who’s standing beside me.

I hand my flashlight to him and kneel. Setting the kit on the ground, I open it and extract a pair of examination gloves, slip them on. In the yellow light of the beam, I untie the bandana and peel it away.

The sight of the injury shocks me. I see white flesh interspersed with black hair. The six-inch gash is jagged and deep. The skin has been laid open, exposing muscle. There’s too much blood for me to discern if bone has been exposed, but it’s a serious injury.

“Mr. Beachy, you’re telling me a large animal got close enough to you to do this and yet you didn’t get a look at it?” I say.

“I tripped and fell, facedown, and as I got to my hands and knees, it came at me from behind. I kicked it and then I got out of there as fast as I could.” He shrugs. “I didn’t realize how bad the bite was until I felt the blood sloshing around in my boot. I figured I’d better stop at the first house I came to.”

“You did the right thing.” I remove sterile wadding from the first aid kit, place it over the wound, and secure it with a wrap to keep the bleeding in check until the EMTs arrive. “There’s an ambulance on the way,” I tell him.

He tries to hold onto his smile, but his expression is queasy. “Might need a stitch or two, eh?”

Or twenty, I think, but I don’t say it. “Can you tell me where this happened, Mr. Beachy?”

“A couple miles down the road.” He points. “I’d just passed through the covered bridge. That old wood one out on Dog Leg Road.” He motions to his horse a few feet away. “Biscuit’s eighteen years old. Best trotter I ever had. He’s solid as a rock with nerves of steel. Whatever came out of those woods scared him something awful.” He looks away, shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m not a man to spin a tall tale, Chief Burkholder. I’m sure not a man to believe one. But I can tell you this. Whatever grabbed hold of me was a thing of nightmares. The kind of beast that’ll tear a man to shreds and not leave a trace behind when it’s done.”

The ruckus woke him at 1:00 A.M. The donkey braying. The cows bawling. Isaac Stutz knew those sounds. When a predator threatened the calves, the mommas got upset, and the donkey let him know.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been wakened in the dead of night. Two years ago, he’d lost a calf to coyotes. Last spring, they’d taken a lamb. At the urging of his neighbor, he bought a nasty-tempered little donkey at the auction in Kidron. Sally had been keeping the babies safe since.

Grabbing the old Ruger 10/22 and his lantern out of the mudroom, Isaac hit the door running. In the distance, the donkey brayed up a storm. He could hear the momma cows’ plaintive cries.

“Hold on, girls!” he called out. “Ich bin om cooma.” I’m coming.

Then he was down the steps and across the yard. He yanked the barn door open and streaked to the back, took the steps down to the lower level. He ran across the pen, reached the fence, and looked out over the small pasture where he kept his livestock at night. Through the mist, he could see the cows and calves huddled in the corner. Brave little Sally stood guard, braying her heart out.

“Sally?” Isaac opened the gate and went through. “Was der schinner is letz?” What in the world is wrong?

He went to the donkey and patted her shoulder, surprised to find her trembling despite her fierce stance. The usually social jenny didn’t acknowledge him. Didn’t take her eyes off the wall of trees demarking the greenbelt that ran along Painters Creek.