Tango: The Tale of an Island Dog Read Online Free PDF Page A

from?”
    “My point exactly,” said Nigel. “Where are all of these foreigners coming from? And why?”
    “Who else,” asked Briar, “besides the dog?”
    “That girl—the one with long black hair. She’s strange, I tell you—always hanging around our beach, stealing our stuff.”
    “No stranger than any of the other two-leggers in the village,” Leftie noted. “Who else?”
    “The fox,” Nigel snarled. “That foul creature showed up on the same day as the girl. No coincidence, if you ask me.”
    “Strange. Very strange indeed,” agreed Tate.
    “A strange girl, a fox, and now this Rat-Boy,” Nigel complained.
    Flint, a Siamese Cross, yawned. “Who’s Rat-Boy?”
    Fur on end, Nigel bared his brownish teeth. “Flint, listen up! Rat-Boy’s the name I gave the new dog! We’ve got to call him something.”
    With narrowed eyes, Axel stroked his Whiskers with a paw. “Three outsiders moving into the village since the snow melted. If this keeps up, by next spring, that’s—”
    “Too many,” Briar declared.
    “This calls for a plan,” concluded Axel, switching his tipless tail.
    An odd smile skewed the tabby cat’s face—a sinister look that Nigel hadn’t seen before.
    “The Scram Plan.” Axel sniggered. “Effective immediately.”

CHAPTER 11
Kindred Spirits
    Nigel was correct. It was no coincidence that Beau Fox showed up in Victoria-by-the-Sea on the same day as McKenna Skye. So, while we give our little friend Tango some time to heal, we’ll meander back in time—twelve years or so, to another shore.
    The unlikely bond between the girl and the fox formed during the second summer of Beau’s life.
    A few hours before dawn, Beau was curled inside his den, deep in the sand dunes on the North Shore. Above him, meadow mice tittered and skittered, reminding Beau of his hunger. He unfurled his tail, stretched, and stuck his head out of the den. A thin wail, carried on the northeast wind, cut through the familiar buzzing, humming, lapping, and flapping sounds of the night.
    Beau’s black ears perked. He sniffed the air. The sound unsettled him. With his hind paws steppinginto tracks left by his front paws, he trotted across the sand in search of its source.
    As he approached the marsh near North River, the cry became thicker, more desperate. The fur on Beau’s back bristled. This was not the final cry of a frog clasped in the jaws of a raccoon. Not a rabbit’s squeal, nor a plea for mercy from a mole clamped in an owl’s beak.
    Heavy spring rains had caused the river to over-flow its banks. Crabs scattered as Beau plodded through the slimy marsh grasses. He found himself sinking in muck and once had to swim to safety.
    The wail peaked, broke, and rose again to a screech.
    Winds blew the clouds off the face of a full moon, exposing a brilliant white path of light across the marsh. Just ahead, a solid dark bundle was wedged between the trunks of two silver birches. Four tiny flesh-covered limbs rose out of the dark mass, kicking and thrashing.
    Cautiously, Beau approached. A step. Another step.
    And then—a baby. A human baby. Very small. Very young.
    Beau held a point, prepared to pounce.
    The dark-haired infant screamed. Beau retreated. Water swirled close to the white hairs at the bottom of his chest.
    When the infant’s voice stilled, Beau moved forward and sniffed. The terrified baby’s glassy eyes widened. Tears streamed down the plump flesh of its cheeks. Beau growled. For a moment, he considered biting the soft flesh. Such sweet revenge it would be.
    Beau’s mind flashed back to a sleeting night in late winter. The distant squeal of tires. The scream of his mate, Tawny—her body crushed by the tires of a bright red car. When Beau reached her, it was too late.
    Shaking off his grief, Beau studied his discovery.
    The infant, he realized, was lying in a basket woven out of reeds and green branches. It was lined with the feathered skin of a goose. All but one of the leather cords binding