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 w