"Hawr Hawr Hawr!" he bellowed. "You don't even know what kind of animal it is? Hawr Hawr Hawr!"
Mr. Hodges didn't see the humor. Something had been having its way with his chickens for weeks, and last night whatever it was had killed a particularly virulent rooster that had been, judging by the signs of struggle and violence, trying to protect his harem at the time.
It would be expensive to replace that cock. And chicks are not free either. It was enough to sour Mr. Hodges' disposition.
"You, sir," Mr. Hodges addressed Phil, "have a ghoul's sense of humor."
Phil blanched. He looked around at the group of men gathered on the stoop of the general store. He stammered, "Why... I... you can't say that to me, I don't care who you...,"
"He said ghoul," Hank Granger, Mr. Hodges' man, explained. "Not girl."
"Oh," Phil said. "That's okay then. Isn't it?"
Hank shrugged. Mr. Hodges said, "Please take the traps to my wagon, Mr. Granger. We're leaving."
"Ha! You won't catch anything with those shoddy traps," Phil continued running his mouth. "Hawr Hawr Hawr!"
Mr. Hodges descended the steps and stood before Phil. The gentleman farmer was a half-head taller than the unemployed cowboy. He was dressed in clean clothes instead of ratty denim and was shaven but for a neatly trimmed mustache. "Pray tell," he said. "How would you deal with the situation then?"
"Hell," Phil thrust out his chin. "I'm part Indian. I can track, trap and kill anything that crawls or slithers. Wouldn't be no situation for me in the first place."
"Then I will give you ten dollars, sir," Mr. Hodges said, "if you bring me the dead carcass of whatever animal is killing my chickens."
"Hawr Hawr Hawr!" Phil cried, stepping back, his bluff having been called. "Look at the fancy farmer! Trying to buy his way out of trouble. Well this ain't Chicago, Mister! You can't just throw money and have people fall at your feet. "Hawr Hawr Hawr!"
Mr. Hodges dismissed the cowboy with a wave of his hand and joined Hank at the wagon.
"He'll show up tonight with a dead raccoon," Hank told his boss. "Try to sell it to you for ten dollars."
"If he does, I may ask you to shoot him for a trespasser."
Hank nodded. He took the reins of the lead horse and got the animals moving.
On the street, behind in the dust, a ten-year-old boy named Timmy Conway - a true Indian half breed, with the inscrutable dark eyes and straight, black hair to prove it - watched them leave.
***
"He won't pay you," Rebecca told Timmy. "You're wasting your time."
Timmy ignored his sister and continued preparing a pack - a water skin, dried beef, and extra bullets for the rifle. He had decided to spend the night in the woods just beyond Mr. Hodges' farm to track and, hopefully, kill the animal responsible for the missing chickens.
"Leave it," Rebecca said. She held a book in her hands and turned the page. "Stay home. I'll read to you."
"We need money," Timmy replied.
"We do; but you won't get it that way."
Their father had supposed to been back from his trip to California in July, but he hadn't come yet, and leaves were beginning to fall from the trees. The old man had left them a purse to see to necessities, however, now that pouch barely had enough left to jingle when dropped on the table. They weren't likely to starve; what with Brazos so close and Timmy's developing skills as a hunter, but cold weather was coming and it would be smart to stock up.
"He said ten dollars," Timmy explained. "We could buy enough flour and sugar for the winter. And maybe a side of beef."
"You'll never see that ten dollars, Timmy. He'll just say you didn't catch the right animal."
"Well, I'll tell him he doesn't have to pay if another chicken goes missing."
"Until when? The end of time? He won't pay."
Timmy considered that, then said, "He will. He's an honorable man."
"Ha!" Rebecca turned another page. "Tim-buck, I myself will give you ten dollars if you can show me an honorable man. Leave it. Here, sit with me and I'll read to you."
Timmy looked at his sister sitting by the window for light. Also a half-breed, she had the same straight, black hair but hers came all the way down past her waist. Her eyes, too, were dark and wide. She was six years older than Timmy; taller and more coordinated. They used to play and hunt together in the wilderness by the river, but now all she like to do was read and comb her hair.
She lifted her eyes from the book and smiled at her brother. "It'll be cold tonight. Stay home; don't waste your time in the cold, dark night."
"We need money," he repeated.
"Don't worry about money," she said. "I can get money if we need it."
That decided the boy. He finished packing and said on his way out, "I'll be back in the morning."
***
Safely hidden in the underbrush of the woods, Timmy watched from a distance as Hank and another man set the traps just outside the fence of Mr. Hodges' property. He couldn't hear their words, but from the way they circled and pointed at the ground, he figured they were looking for tracks. Occasionally, they would hunker down and run their hands over dirt, then set a trap nearby.
Timmy waited.
Finished with the choir, the two men stood in the twilight, smoking. Timmy heard their laughter and watched the glowing embers of their cigarettes. Eventually, they tossed the butts down, ground them with boots, and walked back to the farm.
Timmy crept along the edge of the woods to the fence where the men had been. He stayed low, moving from shadow to shadow. On his belly, he reached out and touched one of the cigarette butts. He brought that finger back to his nose to smell the tobacco. A mistake, he thought, this would scare the animal. They shouldn't have dropped them next to the traps.
Still on his stomach, he crawled around looking for the same tracks the men must have seen. The sun was mostly hidden behind the horizon and the sky a dark azure blue. Timmy relied on touch as much as eyesight as the light was poor.
There, his fingers found scars marked in the dirk. Claws.
Timmy covered that print with one hand, found another, and covered it as well. He stayed that way, still and silent, holding his breath and trying to muffle the beating of his heart.
A young boy laying in dirt can call upon magic. Timmy did so. Willing his hands to turn to paws and his mind to become pure animal instinct, he imagined the path of the beast. He saw with the predator's eyes; smelled with its nose. Through underbrush and tangle-weed it traveled. It stayed away from open spaces and off man-made foot paths. It lived in a burrow by the river.
Timmy opened his eyes. It was dark now, almost completely save for a half moon and scattering of stars.
No matter. He knew where to go and how to get there.
Like a snake, he slithered on his belly towards the thickest part of the foliage and plunged into the woods.
Had there been any light, he might have noticed the animal tracks actually went in the opposite direction.
It wouldn't have made a difference.
***
Filthy and scrapped, Timmy came upon the bank of the Brazos river. The moon was high. Night birds, frogs and insects cried out alarms. The world had become a dark place of mystery; dripping with shadows.
Timmy had never felt so alive.
Guided by instinct and belief, Timmy had tracked the animal here, to its lair, and now it was time to dispatch the creature and claim the prize. He sat Indian, held the rifle in his lap, and checked to make sure it was loaded and ready.
As he was about to reset the barrel, he heard noise and saw motion at the water's edge. Slowly, carefully he prepared the rifle - wincing at the unavoidable click it made - and settled flat on his stomach. Using elbows and knees, he crept forward towards the river.
There, off to the left in the sand below, a dark-haired animal with its head at the water. Drinking? Hunting fish or turtle? Whatever its business, it was distracted. Timmy took advantage. He positioned himself on the ridge, aimed, and fired.
The sound and flash of the gun tore away the unreal calm of midnight in the wild. Timmy leapt to his feet, heart racing. He whipped his head around, looking to see if the world had caught fire, but everything had returned to darkness and silence. The night birds, frogs and insects momentarily scared into silence.
The body of his prey lay at the river's edge. Timmy barked out a quick laugh and slid down the bank to inspect it.
As he approached, he noticed something wrong. The animal appeared to be laying on top of a small body; there were bare feet - toes curled - next to claws and an arm sticking out from a tangled mess of fur. The fingers of the hand stiff and cupped, pointing at the sky.
Timmy stopped, scared. His mind could make no sense of this. Had the animal killed a child? Was it some kind of man-eating monster?
Was it really dead?
He knelt down and moved slowly, aiming the rifle again. When he was within touching distance, Timmy slung the gun over his shoulder and reached out. He grabbed the leg of the beast, tugged, and then jumped back.
It did not move.
But the paw hadn't felt right in his hand. It was flat; lifeless. Like a piece of cloth.
Timmy then tried the human foot. He grabbed it, let go, took it again. It was very real, fleshy and warm. Timmy stood and looked around. Something was very wrong here.
He knelt at the side of the creature. He saw now that it wasn't, in fact, an animal. It was an animal's skin. When he lifted it, underneath was the body of a child. He rolled the body over on its back.
A young girl. The whites of her dead eyes luminous in the moonlight.
Timmy fell on his backside. He knew the girl - her blond hair and fair skin unmistakable. This was Mr. Hodges' daughter, Sally, who had once, when she'd met him at the general store, asked Timmy why she'd never seen him at church. She had complained there were no other children their age at church and he should go sometime.
Now she lay in the mud of the Brazos with a gaping hole from Timmy's bullet in her narrow chest.
Timmy sat and stared for a long while. The animal skin looked to be mostly badger, but there were other pelts sewn together as well. None of the paws, for instance, were of the same kind. It had been affixed to the girl with leather braids, many of which were still tied around her arms and legs; hips and torso. The face mask was definitely fox. She'd worn it like a hat, but now it was off; tangled in her long, golden hair.
Why? Why?
When Timmy finally realized he was weeping, he stood up and furiously wiped his eyes. He had to get rid of the body. He didn't have the tools to dig a grave, but the river....
Timmy lifted Sally by the arms and drug her towards the water. He carried the body in, gasping at the freezing temperature. Soon, his feet lost bottom and he had to swim. The current grew stronger and his burden heavy as the pelt submerged.
When he'd gone as far as he dared, Timmy pushed the body towards the river's center. The current caught it, twirled it, dunked it, and then pushed it into a tangle of post oak roots about twenty yards away where it got stuck.
Timmy tread water and sobbed openly. It was impossible. The body would be found. He would be accused. Nobody would believe it was an accident.
And they would execute him for murder. Place a rope around his smooth neck and hang him from a tree.
Then the river sucked Sally's body from the branches and fed it to the current. Timmy watched it - flashes of white skin and clumps of animal hair - bob up and down, drifting further and further away.
Soon it was out of sight.
Timmy left the water. He still wept, but silently now. He returned to the place where he'd shot her and tried to cover up the blood by kicking dirt over the dark, wet spots, but soon grew tired.
He collected his rifle and pack and started for home.
"Hell," Phil thrust out his chin. "I'm part Indian. I can track, trap and kill anything that crawls or slithers. Wouldn't be no situation for me in the first place."
"Then I will give you ten dollars, sir," Mr. Hodges said, "if you bring me the dead carcass of whatever animal is killing my chickens."
"Hawr Hawr Hawr!" Phil cried, stepping back, his bluff having been called. "Look at the fancy farmer! Trying to buy his way out of trouble. Well this ain't Chicago, Mister! You can't just throw money and have people fall at your feet. "Hawr Hawr Hawr!"
Mr. Hodges dismissed the cowboy with a wave of his hand and joined Hank at the wagon.
"He'll show up tonight with a dead raccoon," Hank told his boss. "Try to sell it to you for ten dollars."
"If he does, I may ask you to shoot him for a trespasser."
Hank nodded. He took the reins of the lead horse and got the animals moving.
On the street, behind in the dust, a ten-year-old boy named Timmy Conway - a true Indian half breed, with the inscrutable dark eyes and straight, black hair to prove it - watched them leave.
***
"He won't pay you," Rebecca told Timmy. "You're wasting your time."
Timmy ignored his sister and continued preparing a pack - a water skin, dried beef, and extra bullets for the rifle. He had decided to spend the night in the woods just beyond Mr. Hodges' farm to track and, hopefully, kill the animal responsible for the missing chickens.
"Leave it," Rebecca said. She held a book in her hands and turned the page. "Stay home. I'll read to you."
"We need money," Timmy replied.
"We do; but you won't get it that way."
Their father had supposed to been back from his trip to California in July, but he hadn't come yet, and leaves were beginning to fall from the trees. The old man had left them a purse to see to necessities, however, now that pouch barely had enough left to jingle when dropped on the table. They weren't likely to starve; what with Brazos so close and Timmy's developing skills as a hunter, but cold weather was coming and it would be smart to stock up.
"He said ten dollars," Timmy explained. "We could buy enough flour and sugar for the winter. And maybe a side of beef."
"You'll never see that ten dollars, Timmy. He'll just say you didn't catch the right animal."
"Well, I'll tell him he doesn't have to pay if another chicken goes missing."
"Until when? The end of time? He won't pay."
Timmy considered that, then said, "He will. He's an honorable man."
"Ha!" Rebecca turned another page. "Tim-buck, I myself will give you ten dollars if you can show me an honorable man. Leave it. Here, sit with me and I'll read to you."
Timmy looked at his sister sitting by the window for light. Also a half-breed, she had the same straight, black hair but hers came all the way down past her waist. Her eyes, too, were dark and wide. She was six years older than Timmy; taller and more coordinated. They used to play and hunt together in the wilderness by the river, but now all she like to do was read and comb her hair.
She lifted her eyes from the book and smiled at her brother. "It'll be cold tonight. Stay home; don't waste your time in the cold, dark night."
"We need money," he repeated.
"Don't worry about money," she said. "I can get money if we need it."
That decided the boy. He finished packing and said on his way out, "I'll be back in the morning."
***
Safely hidden in the underbrush of the woods, Timmy watched from a distance as Hank and another man set the traps just outside the fence of Mr. Hodges' property. He couldn't hear their words, but from the way they circled and pointed at the ground, he figured they were looking for tracks. Occasionally, they would hunker down and run their hands over dirt, then set a trap nearby.
Timmy waited.
Finished with the choir, the two men stood in the twilight, smoking. Timmy heard their laughter and watched the glowing embers of their cigarettes. Eventually, they tossed the butts down, ground them with boots, and walked back to the farm.
Timmy crept along the edge of the woods to the fence where the men had been. He stayed low, moving from shadow to shadow. On his belly, he reached out and touched one of the cigarette butts. He brought that finger back to his nose to smell the tobacco. A mistake, he thought, this would scare the animal. They shouldn't have dropped them next to the traps.
Still on his stomach, he crawled around looking for the same tracks the men must have seen. The sun was mostly hidden behind the horizon and the sky a dark azure blue. Timmy relied on touch as much as eyesight as the light was poor.
There, his fingers found scars marked in the dirk. Claws.
Timmy covered that print with one hand, found another, and covered it as well. He stayed that way, still and silent, holding his breath and trying to muffle the beating of his heart.
A young boy laying in dirt can call upon magic. Timmy did so. Willing his hands to turn to paws and his mind to become pure animal instinct, he imagined the path of the beast. He saw with the predator's eyes; smelled with its nose. Through underbrush and tangle-weed it traveled. It stayed away from open spaces and off man-made foot paths. It lived in a burrow by the river.
Timmy opened his eyes. It was dark now, almost completely save for a half moon and scattering of stars.
No matter. He knew where to go and how to get there.
Like a snake, he slithered on his belly towards the thickest part of the foliage and plunged into the woods.
Had there been any light, he might have noticed the animal tracks actually went in the opposite direction.
It wouldn't have made a difference.
***
Filthy and scrapped, Timmy came upon the bank of the Brazos river. The moon was high. Night birds, frogs and insects cried out alarms. The world had become a dark place of mystery; dripping with shadows.
Timmy had never felt so alive.
Guided by instinct and belief, Timmy had tracked the animal here, to its lair, and now it was time to dispatch the creature and claim the prize. He sat Indian, held the rifle in his lap, and checked to make sure it was loaded and ready.
As he was about to reset the barrel, he heard noise and saw motion at the water's edge. Slowly, carefully he prepared the rifle - wincing at the unavoidable click it made - and settled flat on his stomach. Using elbows and knees, he crept forward towards the river.
There, off to the left in the sand below, a dark-haired animal with its head at the water. Drinking? Hunting fish or turtle? Whatever its business, it was distracted. Timmy took advantage. He positioned himself on the ridge, aimed, and fired.
The sound and flash of the gun tore away the unreal calm of midnight in the wild. Timmy leapt to his feet, heart racing. He whipped his head around, looking to see if the world had caught fire, but everything had returned to darkness and silence. The night birds, frogs and insects momentarily scared into silence.
The body of his prey lay at the river's edge. Timmy barked out a quick laugh and slid down the bank to inspect it.
As he approached, he noticed something wrong. The animal appeared to be laying on top of a small body; there were bare feet - toes curled - next to claws and an arm sticking out from a tangled mess of fur. The fingers of the hand stiff and cupped, pointing at the sky.
Timmy stopped, scared. His mind could make no sense of this. Had the animal killed a child? Was it some kind of man-eating monster?
Was it really dead?
He knelt down and moved slowly, aiming the rifle again. When he was within touching distance, Timmy slung the gun over his shoulder and reached out. He grabbed the leg of the beast, tugged, and then jumped back.
It did not move.
But the paw hadn't felt right in his hand. It was flat; lifeless. Like a piece of cloth.
Timmy then tried the human foot. He grabbed it, let go, took it again. It was very real, fleshy and warm. Timmy stood and looked around. Something was very wrong here.
He knelt at the side of the creature. He saw now that it wasn't, in fact, an animal. It was an animal's skin. When he lifted it, underneath was the body of a child. He rolled the body over on its back.
A young girl. The whites of her dead eyes luminous in the moonlight.
Timmy fell on his backside. He knew the girl - her blond hair and fair skin unmistakable. This was Mr. Hodges' daughter, Sally, who had once, when she'd met him at the general store, asked Timmy why she'd never seen him at church. She had complained there were no other children their age at church and he should go sometime.
Now she lay in the mud of the Brazos with a gaping hole from Timmy's bullet in her narrow chest.
Timmy sat and stared for a long while. The animal skin looked to be mostly badger, but there were other pelts sewn together as well. None of the paws, for instance, were of the same kind. It had been affixed to the girl with leather braids, many of which were still tied around her arms and legs; hips and torso. The face mask was definitely fox. She'd worn it like a hat, but now it was off; tangled in her long, golden hair.
Why? Why?
When Timmy finally realized he was weeping, he stood up and furiously wiped his eyes. He had to get rid of the body. He didn't have the tools to dig a grave, but the river....
Timmy lifted Sally by the arms and drug her towards the water. He carried the body in, gasping at the freezing temperature. Soon, his feet lost bottom and he had to swim. The current grew stronger and his burden heavy as the pelt submerged.
When he'd gone as far as he dared, Timmy pushed the body towards the river's center. The current caught it, twirled it, dunked it, and then pushed it into a tangle of post oak roots about twenty yards away where it got stuck.
Timmy tread water and sobbed openly. It was impossible. The body would be found. He would be accused. Nobody would believe it was an accident.
And they would execute him for murder. Place a rope around his smooth neck and hang him from a tree.
Then the river sucked Sally's body from the branches and fed it to the current. Timmy watched it - flashes of white skin and clumps of animal hair - bob up and down, drifting further and further away.
Soon it was out of sight.
Timmy left the water. He still wept, but silently now. He returned to the place where he'd shot her and tried to cover up the blood by kicking dirt over the dark, wet spots, but soon grew tired.
He collected his rifle and pack and started for home.
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