Текст книги "Boone's Lick"

Автор книги: Larry McMurtry

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Ma paid him no mind. Now it seemed to be her turn to be lost in thought.

"Now, Mary Margaret, you don't need to be worrying about Neva," Uncle Seth said. "If she should happen to be with Bill Hickok then she's as safe as if she was in jail. Bill is a perfect gentleman where young ladies are concerned."

Ma didn't answer him. She got up and followed us to the door, but she didn't come outside.

"Hurry back," she said, as we started down the road.

4 ONCE we started on the road to town I couldn't hold back my question.

"That was a horse we butchered," I said. "It wasn't an elk."

"Well, I didn't do any of the butchering but it did seem to have the appearance of a horse," Uncle

Seth agreed.

"Besides that, Sheriff Baldy was sitting on the horse," I reminded him.

"Even if Ma thought a horse looked like an elk, there was the sheriff on top of it. A sheriff wouldn't ride an elk."

"It would be unlikely, particularly if it was Baldy," Uncle Seth agreed.

To my disappointment, he didn't seem to want to talk about the fact that Ma had confused a horse with an elk–or had claimed to, at least. Maybe it was because he was thinking about Wild Bill Hickok, the famous pistolero we were going to see. I had heard him talk about Wild Bill once or twice, so I knew the two men knew one another–but that was all I 12

knew. Uncle Seth had picked up his rifle as we left the house–it was still in its oilcloth sheath. I don't think he brought it along because he was worried about panthers, either. I didn't know what he might be worried about. Uncle Seth gambled a lot–he might owe Mr. Hickok money, for all I knew. It could even be money he didn't have. Or Hickok might owe him money, in which case getting him to pay might not be easy.

I had no idea what Uncle Seth might be thinking, but then, suddenly, he told me.

"I like the Cheyenne," he said. You never knew when Uncle Seth would change the subject.

I had never met a Cheyenne, so had no opinion to give.

"I would trust a Cheyenne over a Frenchman, most days," he went on. "The Cheyenne rarely cheat you more than you can afford to be cheated. That's why I like to trade with them."

I didn't say anything. I knew Uncle Seth would get around to telling me what he wanted to tell me if I could be patient and hold my tongue.

I think he was about ready to come out with it when we saw somebody come slipping up the road–the somebody was Neva.

"Hello," Uncle Seth said. "It's nice to see you're well."

He could see her clearly, because the clouds had finally blown away and there was a big bright moon.

"Hello," Neva said, and that was all she said. She went right on past us, toward the freight yard. If she had any adventures in Boone's Lick she didn't share them with us.

"Say, look out for Granpa," Uncle Seth called after her. "He's out with his old cap-and-ball again, looking for panthers. Don't yowl or he might shoot you."

"I don't never yowl," Neva said. "Anyway, I don't think that old pistol of his will even shoot." Then she was gone.

"Besides being hardheaded, the womenfolk in this family are closemouthed, too," he said. "The only way you're going to know what one of them does is if you catch her at it."

Then he didn't say anything for a while, and we were nearly to town.

"What was that you were saying about the Cheyenne Indians?" I asked. I was determined to find out something, even if it wasn't anything I particularly wanted to know.

"Oh, I was thinking about that elk Mary Margaret claims she saw," Uncle Seth said. "The Cheyenne explanation would be that there was an elk somewhere who realized that us Cecils were getting poorly from being so underfed. The elk might have been an old elk, who had been thinking about dying anyway. So the elk decided to give it up, so we could have some proper vittles for a while. Baldy Stone came along and the elk put his spirit into the horse Baldy was riding. It looked like a horse but Mary 13

Margaret seen deeper and realized it was an elk. So she shot it, just like she said. If you ask her thirty years from now what she shot that day Baldy and his deputies requisitioned the mules, she'd still say she shot an elk. And if you believe like the Cheyenne believe, then she was right."

"But there are no elk around here," I pointed out.

"No, but there are a few left in Kansas," Uncle Seth said. "That's probably where it came from– Kansas."

The explanation took me by surprise–I didn't know what to think about it.

"But Ma ain't a Cheyenne Indian," I mentioned.

"Women and Indians are a lot alike," Uncle Seth assured me. "In some ways they are just alike."

"Then Ma didn't lie?" I asked.

"Oh no–Mary Margaret don't lie," Uncle Seth said. "She seen an elk, just like she told the sheriff."

"You don't think it could mean Ma's crazy?" I asked.

Uncle Seth looked at me as if I was the one who might be crazy, for even considering such a thing.

"No, Mary Margaret ain't crazy, any more than the Cheyenne Indians are crazy–at least most of them ain't," he said.

By then we were smack in the middle of Boone's Lick, right outside the saloon.

5 WILD Bill Hickok sat at a table at the back of the saloon, smoking a thin cigar. He wore a buckskin jacket a lot like the one Pa wore, only Pa's was always filthy from buffalo grease or bear grease or something, whereas Wild Bill's looked as if it had just come from the tailor. He was playing a hand of solitaire when we walked in, his chair tilted back a little.

I guess he made it clear that he didn't want company, because there was nobody at any of the tables just in front of him. All of the customers were either crowded up at three or four tables near the front of the saloon or else were standing at the bar. Uncle Seth didn't let the empty tables stop him. "Why, hello, Seth," Mr. Hickok said, when we approached his table. "You're still keeping your plinking rifle safe from the damp, I see."

"Hello, Bill," Uncle Seth said. "This hulking lad is my nephew Sherman–

Shay for short."

To my shock Mr. Hickok settled his chair, stood up, smiled, and shook hands with me courteously.

"He's no kin of William Tecumseh Sherman, your former commander–or was he your former commander?" Uncle Seth asked.

14

"No, the little frizzy-hair terrier never got to order me around," Mr.

Hickok said. "The two of you can have a seat."

I noticed when I was taking a chair that several of the fellows crowded up in the front of the saloon were looking daggers at us–they didn't like it that we got to sit with Mr. Hickok and they just got to sit with their ugly selves. Uncle Seth didn't give them a thought.

"We had a spot of trouble earlier in the day," Uncle Seth said. "I believe my niece may have stopped by to talk to you about it."

"Oh yes, Miss Geneva," Mr. Hickok said. "She's a fetching lass, if I do say so. I fed her a big juicy beefsteak and she put it away so quick that I fed her another. That young lady can eat."

"It was generous of you," Uncle Seth said. "If I hadn't just et I'd have a beefsteak myself."

"What was the trouble?" Mr. Hickok inquired.

"Oh, Baldy Stone borrowed all our mules, and the girls thought he was stealing them. Then Mary Margaret shot Baldy's horse. At the time she was under the impression that the horse was an elk."

The part about the elk, which struck me as so curious, didn't seem to interest Wild Bill Hickok at all.

"Now why would Baldy Stone need to borrow a passel of mules?" he asked.

"He was hoping that good mounts would attract a posse," Uncle Seth said.

"I believe he has had about enough of Jake Miller and that bunch over at Stumptown."

"Well, I don't agree with his thinking," Wild Bill said. "You can get shot just as dead off a good horse as off a bad horse. The quality of the posse is more important than the quality of the horses. How many posse men does he have signed up?"

"One, himself," Uncle Seth said.

"It would take a gallant fellow to ride off alone to tackle the Millers,"

Wild Bill said. "I haven't noticed that Baldy is that gallant."

After that there was a silence. Wild Bill seemed to be thinking about something. The bartender came over with a whiskey bottle and two glasses.

Uncle Seth accepted a shot of whiskey, but waved off the second glass.

"This youth don't drink," he said. "But I do. You might just leave that bottle–that way you won't have to be traipsing back and forth. It'll give the dust a chance to settle."

Uncle Seth had spoken politely, something he didn't always bother to do, but the bartender, who was a feisty little fellow with a scar just under his lip, took offense at the remark.

"There's not a speck of dust on this floor," the bartender said. "What do you think I do all day and most of the night?"

15

"Just leave the bottle–there's no need for a dispute," Uncle Seth said.

"What does he think I do all day and most of the night?" the bartender asked Mr. Hickok, who didn't reply. The floor of the saloon had so many cigar butts strewn on it that it would have been hard to find much dust, but there was a pretty good pile of mud just inside the door where several mule skinners had scraped off their boots.

"That man has been working too hard–it's made him touchy," Uncle Seth said. "I get touchy myself, when I'm overworked."

"Let's hear more about this expedition to arrest the Millers," Mr. Hickok said. "The Millers have never disturbed me personally, but that goddamn Little Billy Perkins, who runs with them, has done me several bad turns."

"Little Billy has few morals–few to none," Uncle Seth said.

"He won't need morals, if he crosses me again," Mr. Hickok said. "It would be doing a favor to humanity to dispose of Little Billy, and I'm in the mood to do the favor.

"If the pay is decent, that is," he added.

He finished his little cigar and flipped the butt across the room. Then he pulled three more slim cigars out of his shirt pocket and offered one to Uncle Seth and one to me. He was a very polite man.

"This boy don't smoke, either," Uncle Seth said. "Mary Margaret is determined to raise him Christian."

"I doubt it will take," Mr. Hickok said, smiling at me. He lit his new cigar and tilted his chair back again.

"I believe Sheriff Stone is prepared to offer you fifty dollars for your services, Bill," Uncle Seth said. "He only offered me five dollars, a sum I looked askance at."

Wild Bill Hickok laughed heartily at that piece of information. He seemed so relaxed and so friendly that I couldn't figure out why Uncle Seth had seemed nervous about going to see him. Behind us, the men in the front of the saloon didn't seem relaxed at all. Several of them were still glaring at us, a fact both Mr. Hickok and Uncle Seth continued to ignore.

"I wouldn't expect you to enjoy being offered forty-five dollars less than me, if I've got my subtraction right," Mr. Hickok said.

"You're accurate, both as to the sum and the opinion," Uncle Seth said.

Mr. Hickok blew a smoke ring or two and looked thoughtful.

"If they paid us fifty dollars apiece that would be a hundred dollars,"

he said. "I doubt the town has it. Do you suppose there's a rich citizen they could ask for a loan?"

"Well, Rosie McGee," Uncle Seth said. I perked my ears up at that. Rosie McGee lived over the saloon. Once or twice I caught a glimpse of her, fanning herself in front of her window on sultry days. G.T. must have had 16

a few glimpses, too, because Rosie was the woman he wanted to marry. "I recall that Rosie harbors a grudge against Jake Miller," Uncle Seth said.

"If she's still harboring her grudge she might be willing to make the community a loan.

"That's the best outlook," Uncle Seth went on. "If the town hired you, and Rosie hired me, we wouldn't have to put up with some ignorant posse men who would probably just be in the way."

Mr. Hickok blew another smoke ring.

"I don't know Miss McGee very well," he said. "It's possible that she harbors a grudge against me, too."

"She could even harbor a grudge against the town of Boone's Lick, in which case she might not care to contribute a cent," Uncle Seth speculated.

"Seth, it's time I tried to scare up a card game," Mr. Hickok said. "I can't just idle the night away discussing grudges–there's such a passel of them. But I'll contribute my services to this Stumptown expedition for fifty dollars–you'll have to scare up your own wages. I'm available anytime but Friday."

"Why not Friday?" Uncle Seth asked, as he got up from the table.

"I don't work Fridays–it's a firm rule," Mr. Hickok said. "Nice to meet you, Sherman."

"You see, he's superstitious," Uncle Seth said, as we were leaving the saloon. "All these fine gun-fighters have their superstitions."

There was a flight of stairs outside the saloon, going up to the room where Rosie McGee lived. Just as we were passing the steps I looked up and saw a little red glow at the top of the stairs–somebody was sitting on the landing, smoking a cigar. A cloud had crossed the moon–all I saw was a little glowing tip.

Uncle Seth saw it too. He took a step or two, and stopped.

"Shay, you go on home," he said. "I believe that's Rosie with the cheroot. I think I'll sound her out about the state of her grudges.

"Look out for Granpa," he added. "He might still be hunting that panther."

Then he turned back, and I soon heard him going up the stairs beside the saloon. The abrupt way he left me on my own gave me a lonely feeling, for some reason. It wasn't the dark–I walked around in the dark all the time, sometimes with G.T. and sometimes without him. I had enjoyed my visit with Wild Bill Hickok, but now I felt lonely. What I wished was that I could be grown-up, like Uncle Seth–grown-up enough to stop and talk with a woman bold enough to sit and smoke a cigar, at the top of the stairs, outside a saloon.

6 WHEN I got home Ma was in the graveyard. I was feeling a little better by then–it was a pretty night and I had walked off the loneliness. There was no sign of Granpa and his pistol but as I was passing the graveyard I 17

saw Ma sitting on a little wooden bench, by the graves. One of Ma's sisters was buried there, and Granma Crackenthorpe, and my four little brothers who hadn't made it through the winters. There were some pretty bad winters in Missouri, and our cabin wasn't chinked too good. G.T.

nearly died himself once, but with the help of an old woman who knew about poultices, he pulled through.

Ma had little Marcy with her–the baby was snoring in the quiet way little babies snore.

Sometimes I would get a knot in my throat when I came upon Ma sitting in the graveyard. I don't think a person would sit in a graveyard unless they were sad, and I didn't want to think about Ma being sad.

But there she was, not saying a thing, just sitting on her little bench, amid the graves. "Hi, Ma," I said. She looked behind me.

"Seth didn't come back with you?" she asked. "I think he wanted to play cards," I said. Ma motioned for me to sit down beside her on the bench, something she rarely did. When Ma went to the graveyard she usually made it clear that she wanted to be left alone.

"Don't be lying for him, Shay," she said. "Let him lie for himself, if there has to be a lie."

I didn't know what to say to that. I didn't even know why I lied–it just came out. I don't know whether Ma cared or not, what Uncle Seth did with Rosie McGee.

It seemed to me the best thing to do would be to change the subject, to something I felt sure would get Ma's attention.

"Uncle Seth wants to take G.T. and me with the posse," I said. "The sheriff's getting up a posse to go arrest the Millers, over at Stumptown, and Uncle Seth thinks me and G.T. are old enough to go along."

"Did you hear me, Shay?" Ma asked, ignoring my statement completely. "I said don't lie for your Uncle Seth–and don't lie for your Pa, either, if he ever comes home again. Let grown men do their own lying–I mean it."

"Yes ma'am," I said meekly. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I said it."

Then Ma put her head in her hands and cried. The baby woke up and began to cry too. I didn't know what to do, but I didn't dare leave the bench.

I put my arm around Ma, but she kept crying. I knew that when Ma went out to the graveyard at night she went there to do her crying. We all knew that, and took care to give the graveyard a wide berth, if Ma was in it.

But this time I had been careless and here I was. Ma cried and the baby cried–I felt for a minute like I might cry too, although I didn't know of anything I needed to cry about. Mainly I just wished Uncle Seth would show up. He was the one person who could get Ma feeling better, when she was low.

It felt like Ma was going to cry forever, but I guess it wasn't forever.

She stopped crying and then the baby stopped. Once they were both calmed down, Ma let Marcy nurse a little.

18

"I'm glad you didn't leave, Shay," Ma said, when she was herself again.

"The ability to stay put when a woman's crying is not one most men have.

"You're fifteen," she added. "I expect you'll soon have a woman of your own. Take my advice and just stay put when she cries. You don't have to say anything: just don't leave. If you can just keep your seat until the crying's over it'll be better for both of you."

I had no comment on that. At the moment I didn't expect I'd ever have a woman of my own–I probably wouldn't need to worry about the crying part.

"I guess your uncle ran into Rosie," Ma said.

I didn't answer, so she gave me a little poke in the ribs with her elbow.

"Mind your manners," Ma said. "Answer me when I ask a question."

"He was going to try and see if she'd pay him fifty dollars to go with the posse," I said. I didn't think Uncle Seth would mind if I told that much.

"What? Say that again?" Ma asked, so I said it again.

"You're just a babe in the woods, Shay," Ma said. Then she chuckled, kind of deep in her throat.

"Rosie don't pay men fifty dollars," Ma said. "It's the other way around-

–men pay Rosie fifty dollars. Maybe a little less, maybe a little more, depending. But Rosie don't pay men."

I had thought the notion that Rosie McGee would chip in fifty dollars to send Uncle Seth with the posse was a little far-fetched, myself. If the sheriff was only willing to pay him five dollars to go shoot at the Miller gang, why would Rosie McGee want to pay him fifty dollars to do the same job? Of course, the fifty dollars only came up because that was what the sheriff offered to pay Wild Bill Hickok. It seemed like a world of money to me.

"What was she supposed to pay Seth the fifty dollars for?" Ma asked. She seemed a lot more cheerful now that we had started talking about Uncle Seth. Even without being there, he was helping to cheer Ma up.

"He seemed to think she'd want him to catch Jake Miller," I said. "That's what he and Mr. Hickok were talking about. Uncle Seth wants to take me and G.T. along with the posse when they go to Stumptown."

"I heard you slip that in the first time," Ma said. Marcy was wide awake-

–she had been trying to crawl lately. Ma put her down on the ground on her belly, to see if she was making any progress with her crawling. Marcy hadn't made much. She just waved her arms and grunted.

"You can do it!" Ma said, to encourage her. "Get up on your hands and legs and crawl."

Marcy continued to wave her arms and legs and grunt.

"She'll figure it out in a few more days," Ma said. She left Marcy to struggle with the problem.

19

"Your Uncle Seth don't know anything about women," Ma said, looking at me. "He's God's fool, where women are concerned. Rosie McGee won't give him a cent, although it is a fact that she hates Jake Miller."

"Why?" I asked.

She didn't answer, which meant that in her opinion, why wasn't any of my business.

"Can we go with the posse, then?" I asked. I was excited at that prospect, but Ma had been so careful about us during the wartime that I didn't know if there was much hope.

"If Seth wants to take you, you can go," Ma said. "But I can't bear to lose no more boys, so you've got to promise to look after G.T."

I expected her to tell me to be careful and look after myself–when she only asked me to look after G.T. I got my feelings hurt, for a moment.

G.T. had always been an expert at looking after himself. Didn't Ma care about me?

"You're the mature one," Ma said, as if in answer to the question I hadn't asked. "Seth don't know anything about women but otherwise he can take care of himself. But G.T. don't know anything about anything, and besides that he's reckless. You make sure he don't get hurt."

"I'll do my best, but he don't mind me," I reminded her.

Ma looked at me a long time, then.

"Here's a piece of news for you, Shay," she said. "The reason I'm letting you boys go with the posse is because you're going to need a little exposure to the wild side of things."

I didn't know what to say.

"I've got some news for you all," Ma said. "I'm tired of sitting here in Missouri, going hungry and losing weight. When we finish eating this horse I shot, we're going to take a trip–all of us."

That was startling news. The bunch of us had always lived in the same place. G.T. and me had only been up and down the river a town or two from Boone's Lick, and the towns weren't very far apart. Other than that we had always just lived in the cabin near the river.

"Where will we go?" I asked.

"To wherever your pa is," Ma said. "I'm out of patience with him. This baby's about ready to crawl and he's never laid eyes on her. He's not been home in fourteen months, and then it was only for two nights. If he won't come and see us, then we'll go and see him. And if he don't like it I'll leave him."

Then she scooped up Marcy and headed for the cabin, leaving me where I sat, with thoughts buzzing around in my head like bumblebees. Just the fact that Ma was going to allow us to go off with the posse would have been enough to think about, but on top of that came the news about a trip 20

to see Pa, wherever he was. Once the fact of it sunk in a little I got so excited I wanted to run around in circles. I wanted to wake up G.T. and tell him the double good news, about the posse and the trip, but it turned out I didn't have to wake him up. Just as I was trying to think of some way to work off my excitement, G.T. came walking up from the river, carrying a dead coon by the tail.

"I slipped up on him while he was cracking a mussel," G.T. said. "Coon meat's just as good as horse meat–there just ain't as much of it."

I was dying to spill my news but I knew I had better take a minute to admire G.T.'s kill, or he'd pout for a week.

"What'd you do, chunk it?" I asked. "Chunked it," G.T. said.

"Guess what, we're going on a trip–two trips, that is," I said, unable to hold the news a minute longer. "First we're going with the posse, and then we're going upriver to look for Pa."

"You're lying!" G.T. said. Then he stomped off in a sulk, because I hadn't paid enough attention to his coon.

7 G.T. and I had a fistfight–a short one–before the night was over. I crawled up in the loft of the cabin, where we kids slept, and was trying to calm down and get some sleep when G.T. shot up the ladder and started punching me. That was the way G.T. started all his fights–he was a firm believer in getting in the first lick. He got in about three licks and I managed two before Neva woke up and yelled at us.

Ma heard Neva and got into it right away. "G.T, do you want me to come up there?" Ma asked.

G.T. definitely didn't, so that was the end of that fight.

"I'll beat the stuffings out of you tomorrow," he whispered, before settling down to snore.

It was only then that I remembered that Ma had said she would leave Pa, if he didn't welcome our visit–that was an unsettling thought, for sure.

It seemed like only a few minutes later that the racket started in the freight yard. When Uncle Seth shook me awake the world was white, with a close, chilly mist off the river.

"Bring your brother," Uncle Seth said, which was easier said than done.

G.T. was a sound sleeper. I shook him and shook him–finally Neva stuck a pin in his toe, two or three times, which brought him around. We could hear horses in the freight yard–or maybe they were our mules. Ma gave us chickory coffee, a rare treat.

"You need to get your wits stirring, if you're going off with these long riders here," she said.

The only long rider I could see, besides Uncle Seth, was Sheriff Baldy Stone, who was evidently cold natured. He stood by the fireplace, warming his hands.

"Eddie, it's just eight miles to Stump town," Ma said. "What's the point of leaving so early?"

21

"The point is, there might be a siege," the sheriff said, "and if it's a long siege we stand to leave the services of Mr. Hickok. This is Thursday and he don't work on Fridays. I want to take advantage of as much of Thursday as I can."

"There's another thing," Ma said. "I've told Seth and I'll tell you and I'll even tell Mr. Hickok, if he puts in an appearance."

"What's the other thing?" the sheriff asked.

"I expect you to bring both my boys back alive, that's the other thing,"

Ma said.

Then she gave us a few strips of horse meat to stuff in our saddlebags, after which she went outside and disappeared in the mist.

"You heard her, now stay alive," the sheriff said. "I would rather not be on the bad side of your ma." "For that matter, I'd rather not be dead," I remarked. G.T., who was still half asleep, thought it was so funny that he cackled–even Neva giggled.

When we went out to the lots we found that Uncle Seth had already saddled each of us a mule, and Mr. Hickok was there, sitting off to himself on a good sorrel horse. Ma was just walking away from him when we came out. I imagine she was warning him, just as she had warned the sheriff.

She didn't say another word to us, which upset G.T. a little.

"I hope she don't forget to skin my coon," he said–his lower lip was trembling. I doubt it was really that coon that he had on his mind.

Uncle Seth seemed to be in a quiet mood, which was unusual for him.

Everybody had rifles and pistols except us, which didn't sit well with G.T. "I need a pistol and so does Shay," he said. "No, no side arms for you boys," Uncle Seth said. "Side arms are only reliable in the hands of experts, and sometimes not then. I'm not too comfortable with the notion of Baldy having a pistol, but it's too early in the day to be disarming the sheriff. Is that your opinion, Bill?"

"I am rarely up this early," Mr. Hickok said. "I don't have an opinion."

"I've put you boys on the fastest mules," Uncle Seth said. "That way you can outrun the Millers if vou have to."

Mr. Hickok was all wrapped up in a gray slicker. He took one hand out from under his slicker and pointed his finger several times.

"Shooting a pistol is just a matter of pointing," he said. "If you can point straight you can shoot straight.

"Very few people can point straight," he added, and then he didn't say another word until we were almost to Stumptown.

It was the thickest mist, that morning. If there hadn't been a well-marked track between Boone's Lick and Stumptown I have no doubt we would all have got lost from one another. Some of the time I couldn't even see my mule's head. I had to listen for the jingling of the bits and the 22

creaking of the saddle leather to convince myself that I was still with the group. Sometimes the mist would clear for a minute and I would see everybody plain as day, but then it would close in again, white as cotton, and I'd have to proceed on hearing.

G.T. was bothered by the ground mist, too. He was so anxious not to lose me that he kept bumping my mule, Little Nicky, a mule with a tendency to bite when he got irritated.

"You best quit bumping Nicky," I told G.T. "He'll take a bite out of you, if you're not careful."

"If he bites me I'll shoot him," G.T. said. "It's spooky out here. I wish I'd stayed home and butchered my coon."

"Well, you didn't," I pointed out.

"I'd go back, if I could find my way," G.T. said. "If you'd go with me I expect we could both make it back."

"Hush, G.T.," Uncle Seth said. "We're trying to take the Millers by surprise, which we won't do if you keep chattering."

"That's right, button up," Sheriff Baldy said. There was no more talk from G.T. but I knew he was resentful–he never liked being scolded.

Myself, I was feeling queasy in my stomach, even though I'd had no vittles except Ma's chickory coffee. I felt like I usually felt when Uncle Seth took us bear hunting. We saw no bears on any of the hunts but of course a bear can appear at any time. "They like to spring at you from hiding," Uncle Seth said cheerfully, and all day, that's what I kept expecting would happen. A bear would spring at us from hiding.

The prospect worried G.T. too. "How many shots does it take to kill a bear?" he asked Uncle Seth, several times. G.T. had a habit of repeating his questions over and over again. Uncle Seth told him that the number of shots depended on where the bear was hit but the explanation wasn't thorough enough for G.T. What he wanted was a clear notion of how many times he'd have to shoot a bear, if one sprang out at him from hiding.

Uncle Seth finally lost his temper. "How many licks of a hammer would it take to make you shut up, you hardheaded fool?" he asked G.T.

"I just wish the dern bear would spring out, if it's going to," G.T.

said.

I felt the same way about the men we were going to attack. I wanted the Millers to spring out, if they were going to, so I'd know whether my fate was to be alive or dead. All three of the older men had strict instructions from Ma to see that we got back alive, but of course, in the heat of battle they would have to look out for themselves first. There were no guarantees–or so few that I was still a little shocked that Ma had let us go. I guess she figured it was time we grew up and learned to fight, in case there was fighting to be done on the trip we would be making shortly, once the Stump town business was over with.

All the same, things were happening too quickly. Only yesterday I had been a boy, with nothing on my mind except watching my brother fish for 23

craw-dads, or my uncle shoot the heads off turtles. When the sun was going down I was peacefully helping my mother cut up a dead horse; now the sun was just rising–it had begun to burn away the mist, turning patches of it a golden color–and here I was an armed man, riding off with other armed men, to kill or be killed.