Derek does not remember getting lost in the woods. Bootsie helpfully corrects his direction several times. Though the path is relatively straight, the scent she follows is not. It wanders without direction, as though the target she seeks is equally lost.

It is a lot of trust to place in a simple hound, Derek recognizes, but she has the better sense of location between the two of them. He follows where she goes even when she steps off the path and follows beside it for a long way.

The woods seem tame compared to his expectations of them. These tall trees stand far from each other, touching their branches together in intimate caresses high overhead. The thickest of underbrush lines the clear path, obscuring it from sight like dedicated chaperons protecting the dignity of their charge.

Derek marvels at the majesty, as he walks easily through a high tunnel of blackberry canes that weave themselves in high arches. Bootsie crawls low on her belly, as though the branches are much lower or likely to reach down to rake her spine at any minute. Derek tries not to think about how this is uncharacteristically cowardly for the trained hound to fear something that is so clearly not a danger.

In the brambles overhead, he spots long strands of dark hair and small clumps of undyed brown woolen threads. It seems highly unlikely that Deirdre would have climbed high enough to entangle herself so. But it is less likely for there to have been a second brown-clad dark-haired person leaving telling signs behind this far into the woods and this far from the safe path.

Derek shudders.

Bootsie bays and gives chase. She has found a much fresher scent and picks up their pace. Her little legs carry her at a quick clip as she weaves her way between tree roots and blunders over and through any obstacle.

Running headlong through the woods, they rush back in the river's direction from which they came. Even with Bootsie’s short little legs, when the dog wants to get moving, she can certainly get moving. The baying of the hound drowns out any other sound Derek may have hoped to hear. Urgency propels the hunters through the woods with all haste. Derek avoids tripping on the loose leaf litter that lies in his path.

Damp leaves slide under his feet as Derek runs as fast as Bootsie can. The smell of wet soil and mildew fills his lungs as he pants with the exertion.

Ahead, through the spaciously planted trees, he catches sight of his target and she is not alone.

Derek would call out if he could catch his breath enough to shout.

Instead, he must watch as the sheriff approaches the thief directly. He cannot hear the exchange of words between the two, but he can see that Deirdre is not initially frightened and does not flee. She approaches the sheriff with anger in her posture, not fear. There is familiarity there, which should be unsurprising since the two are closely related cousins.

Curiosity and the lingering feeling that Deirdre would not be so frequently imprisoned if she were not beholden to an outside source momentarily plant Derek’s feet. He tugs Bootsie’s leash and gives the command to halt.

Bootsie trembles with anticipation, pointing her snout in the smell's direction she has been following all day. Derek holds his hound at bay.

He watches.

The two on the riverbank, defying all logic, have not heard the dog and do not turn in his direction. The distance between them feels much longer than it appears. Derek still cannot hear their conversation. Derek notes the sheriff holds a bow, and not the typical hunter’s recurve, that he has never seen before. It looks out of place in the hands of a man he has always known to prefer using his hands.

It is not Deirdre who throws the first punch.

Sheriff Burrows brings the heavy bow down upon her head in an unanticipated burst of violence. She did not even raise her hands in defense before the wooden bow hit her.

Deirdre reacts quickly, rolling down toward the ground and around the sheriff’s side. She slams her shoulder against his waist in an obvious attempt to knock him sideways, but this does not work. The taller man is much too solid to be moved by her slight weight.

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Sheriff Burrows pivots into the blow. He uses the length of the bow still in his hand as a trap for his fellow combatant. He hooks it around her neck and grabs it with his free hand.

Deirdre stands straight and pushes her back into his chest to escape the hold. But this is exactly what the sheriff desires.

Derek isn’t sure when he moves again, but his legs carry him over the distance faster than he has ever run before. The maddened sprint feels far too long. It is requiring greater distance to traverse than the space between his witness’s view and the unfolding scene appeared to be. He’s running for her life and it becomes increasingly obvious that he is going to be too late.

Deirdre claws at the bow against her throat in automatic desperation. Her nails break on the sturdy wood, dark blood seeping into the thirsty grain. She lifts a foot and kicks hard at her attacker behind her.

The first kick misses completely, sailing harmlessly between the sheriff’s legs to brush against his coat.

The second kick hits him in the knee, but his stance is solid enough to prevent it from being forced to invert. The sheriff shifts his balance and pulls her up off of the ground completely.

Without the ability to brace against the unmoving ground, Deirdre’s third kick harmlessly plants one foot against the attacker’s thigh.

Derek can see from his terrible vantage point, running desperately onward, that her face has gone from red to purple and that cannot be a good sign.

But the fourth kick lands hard in the sheriff’s groin and he buckles forward in pain. Deirdre slips out of his grasp and collapses on the ground. Derek is close enough that he can just hear her gasping coughs over the sound of his own pounding feet.

But the sheriff recovers before she does. And he plants a kick of his own on her back. And another. And another. Deirdre curls into a fetal position with her arms desperately protecting her head. And then his fourth kick punts her off the riverbank and into the river itself.

“Idiot girl,” the sheriff says, and the words ring clear as glass.

Derek changes course.

He runs, with all speed, at an angle to the river. He doesn’t need to get to the spot where Deirdre fell in. He needs to get to where she will inevitably wash up on the shore if she cannot swim on her own.

Bootsie barks at his heels, struggling to keep up with her master’s swift pace. It isn’t often that these roles of theirs are reversed. Derek is no sprinter.

With horror, he watches between the trees as the villainous sheriff prepares an arrow on that bloodstained bow. It is unnatural how Derek’s vision focuses on that one horrid point. The tip is not the straight tip of a target arrow or even the broad head of one used for hunting.

The arrow’s tip is a triangular design. It is designed to create a sucking wound channel. It is designed to deliver poison. This arrow is designed to be as lethal as possible. The barb would rend a wound that is nearly impossible to close.

It has a black shaft, painted a dull matte shade. Bright red fletching completes the arrow’s tail.

Derek has never seen this bow, but he has seen an arrow like that before.

It was in the chest of the previous sheriff.

Sheriff Sigismund Burrows personally helped hunt down the bandits responsible for the roadside murder of the town’s lawman. His evidence against them was unimpeachable. They confessed to the crime, and they hung for it. He was instrumental in locating their lair. He obtained their surrender. And he was in the room when the questioner determined their confession to be legitimate.

Derek remembers the series of events very well indeed.

But he doesn’t have time to think about that. Right now, he has to keep moving, keep running.

He doesn’t think his aching limbs can keep this up for long at all. His legs feel filled with lead instead of bones. Bootsie can barely keep up. Her squat little legs churn as hard as they can. She follows close at his heels, panting and straining to keep up.

The horrible fierce shaft flies free as the sheriff’s bowstring twangs loudly in the quiet woods. Derek cannot see if it hit its mark, but he must assume that it did not. To assume otherwise is to give up before he has barely even begun.

On the river’s edge, the sheriff sneers and tucks his wicked bow back beneath his long raincoat.

The distance expands before Derek. These woods seem to close themselves off again around him. The farther he gets from the direct line between himself and the river, the more undergrowth seems to stand between himself and the site of the attempted murder. While it slows his pace to navigate more difficult terrain, it aids his cause to not have to fear that the sheriff will know that he is on the way there.

And he asks himself, “why?”

It’s not a question of why did Sheriff Burrows do this heinous act. It’s not a question of why is he running.

This why?

This is a question about why does he actually care at all.

And Derek can’t find an immediate answer. All he knows is that Deirdre Burrows went into that icy river alive. And he cannot let her drown.