The Breeders by Katie French

coyotes—snarling mongrels with their hackles raised, their bloodstained mouths contorted in fanged smiles—circle him. They’d picked up the scent of the rabbit in our snare, but Ethan stumbled upon them. Now their eyes glint as they circle another treat. They close in. This can’t be happening. I sprint faster.
    Ethan hears and throws me a desperate look. His arms are extended, his palms out, as if he could shoo them away. He’s complete unarmed.
    The ground blurs. My heart pounds. Twenty yards to go.
    The alpha, a mangy mongrel with a blood-flecked muzzle, must sense me coming. He lurches. In a flash of yellow teeth, the coyote bites Ethan’s outstretched arm.
    “No!”
    I close the last few yards in giant bounds and barrel into the pack, my knife out, teeth gritted. I charge past the three coyotes in the back and head straight for the alpha that’s trying to drag Ethan away.
    Time slows. The ugly scene is crisp as I lock onto my prey. Face contorted in terror, Ethan’s free hand digs into the coyote’s scruff. The coyote’s tail is a taut brush behind him. His ears are erect triangles marking my approach. The frothy saliva runs from his fangs into my brother’s bloody arm. There’s a low, guttural growl, deep in his throat.
    I fall on him. The only sound is the beat of my own heart as I jab my hunting knife home.
    The serrated blade slices into the coyote’s mangy hide. I bury it to the hilt in fur. With a fierce yelp, the coyote jolts and skitters sideways. He drops my brother’s arm. Blood gushes from the animal’s haunch. The coyote looks to his wound and then to me. He growls, flashing bloody fangs, but then limps sloppily over the ridge. His pack follows.
    They’re gone. Ethan.
    With my blood still thrumming in my ears and the prickles of heat flooding my veins, I drop beside my brother, now pale and covered with dust.
    “Ethan,” I say, reaching for his bloodied arm, “are you okay?”
    Of course he’s not okay. His arm is a torn mess of shredded skin, blood and coyote drool. His face drains of color and his eyes well with tears.
    “He … he bit me,” he stammers. He looks like he’s going to faint.
    I cradled him and take off running. I keep my eyes on my brother’s pale face. He has to be okay.
    By the time I reach the house, my lungs feel like deflated balloons and a stitch digs like a knife into my ribs, but none of that matters. I know what an infection means. With no antibiotics it means a horrible agonizing death.
    I am stumbling through the yard when the figure blocks my path. A muscular man in clean denim, a faded t-shirt and cowboy hat. My eyes mark the silver revolvers at his hips. Clay.
    I skid to a stop. “Get out of here!” I yell, though it comes out raspy from my aching lungs. I want to dig out my knife, but my hands are full of my brother, who’s … unconscious? Is he breathing? I flick my eyes from Ethan, back to Clay.
    Clay sees Ethan’s arm and his face darkens. He whistles low. “That’s a nasty bite. Let me lend a hand.”
    “No.” My voice is slick with hatred. “Get off my steps before I make you.” My words sound strong, but my arms feel like limp noodles. If I have to fight Clay now, it’ll go poorly. I don’t care. I’ll die before I’ll let him hurt Ethan.
    He wrinkles his blue eyes as if weighing his words. “Really,” he says. “I can help.”
    “Help what?” I’m stalling. My eyes skim our dusty yard for an exit, an answer, something. “Help capture us?” Ethan moans and more blood runs from his arm onto his shirt. I have to get him inside. Now.
    “Listen,” he says, looking at me sheepishly, one thumb hooked in his belt loop, “I’m not here to take you in. When I locked you in the cellar, I was trying to keep you from getting shot up.”
    He offers that smile now, one he’s probably given his parents a million times to say, Trust this face. Would I lie? I don’t care how charming he is. All I can see is an image of Arn’s body