Claire hollered out, “Jem! What’s happening?”
Frank ducked and lifted his rifle. “Go tell that girl to shut up or she’ll get us all killed. Stay low.”
Jem crawled down the hallway and stuck his head in Claire’s room, cringing at the sight of her empty bed. “Claire? Where are you?”
“I’m down here.”
He pulled up the blanket covering the side of the bed, “Girl, you scared the hell out of me.”
“Shhh!” Claire hissed at him. “You’ll get us killed, dummy.”
“No, you’re gonna get us killed with all your squawking. You have to shut up.”
“I am shutted up! It’s you making all the noise.”
Jem looked back and saw Frank moving toward the front door. He covered his mouth with the side of his hand and said, “Frank! Don’t go out there. It ain’t safe.”
“I think we got ‘em on the run,” Frank said. “The gunshots are getting farther away.”
“Frank? Frank? Damn.” The Deputy vanished onto the porch, and Jem lifted his rifle.
“Are we alone now, Jem?”
“No, course not. He just went outside to wait for Daddy. Everything’s going to be ok.”
“That’s what you said when Mama got sick. That didn’t turn out ok, now did it?”
Something crashed against the porch and Claire squeaked in fright. She covered her face with the blanket. Jem told her to hush and said, “Maybe it’s just a bassaricus. Frank probably caught it going through the trash.”
“We’re gonna die,” Claire moaned.
“No we aren’t. Stay still and I’ll go look.” Jem’s hands shook so bad that the rifle bounced from the door to the ceiling and he walked right into a table in the hallway. He flipped a switch on the site assembly and it hummed, glowing bright green. A mechanical voice said, “Auto-Targeting Activated.”
“Frank?” Jem called. There was no response.
Boards creaked under his bare feet as he leaned to open the door and crept onto the porch. He searched the meadow but saw nothing, and as he moved to first steps, he tweaked a loose piece of wood.
A bare-chested savage stood up at the bottom of the steps. He was dark skinned and slick with sweat and blood, standing over Frank’s crumpled body. Frank was writhing at his feet, fingering the top of his head that was now just a ghoulish crown of pale bone. The Beothuk had a dripping knife in one hand and a chunk of Frank’s scalp in the other. He screamed at Jem, and the front of the boy’s pants turned wet.
“Go on,” Jem whispered, backing away as the savage came up the steps. “Get out of here. I mean it. I’ll shoot.”
The Beothuk sneered at the rifle in the boy’s hands and flipped the knife in his hands, catching it by the tip, readying to throw.
“Target acquired.”
A soft puff of air escaped from the gun’s barrel that sent a blue dart into the center of the Beothuk’s chest. He looked down at the dart curiously and a gunshot cracked the air that blew a hole in the savage’s chest. Jem watched in horror as he staggered backwards and toppled down the porch’s steps.
A destrier came crashing through the meadow so fast that Jem only had time to raise his rifle and fire blindly in its direction. Sam Clayton swung his hands in the air and said, “Cease fire! Cease fire! Son of a bitch, Frank, you almost shot me.” The Sheriff’s voice pinched as he came in front of the two bodies scattered on the ground.
Jem stood motionless on the porch, staring at his father, his mouth working back and forth with nothing coming out of it.
Sam’s face twisted in horror and Jem shouted out, “He killed Frank. He was gonna kill Claire! I had to do it, Pa, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill him. I swear it. It just happened.”
Sam jumped down from the destrier and grabbed Jem into his arms, kissing the boy over and over on top of the head and saying, “Good boy. Good boy.”
2. Gunfighters
He hadn’t practiced medicine since acquiring a nasty ailment that ended his career in Seneca 6 forever. His wracking cough had a way of erupting out whenever he leaned over a patient’s mouth. Blood mixed with saliva, horked into the unsuspecting face of a man saying “Ah” or a woman asking him to inspect a suspicious lump, had a way of determining the finality of their patronage. Even Doctor Royce Halladay’s most loyal patients found other doctors. Ones who didn’t fold up like a chair and clutch their stomachs like their guts were about to uncoil.
One morning Halladay got up to go into the office and stopped walking at the kitchen door. He took off his hat and sat on the porch rocking chair, watching the grass sway in the wind for hours until his wife, Katey, came out. “Why aren’t you at work?” she said.
“My office has turned into a graveyard, and I am doing my utmost to avoid them at present.”
In time, sitting on the porch no longer contented him, but the addition of small tin cups of whiskey helped. “It helps soothe my throat,” he told Katey. It was not long before he’d assembled a pyramid of empty bottles on the porch.
In the beginning of the summer, Sam Clayton came to visit. The sheriff tied his destrier to the post below the Halladay’s porch and drew a rifle from his saddle bag. “It was my understanding that you were working late, Sheriff, and that is why my wife needed to watch your children.”
“I was,” Sam said. He came up the porch and sat down. “When I got home, I saw something that needed to be addressed, so I came to do that.”
Halladay eyed the rifle. “A euthanasia. Come to put me out of my misery, then?”
Sam turned and fixed Halladay with a hard stare. “Your wife is looking skinny, Doc. Too skinny. You ain’t got money for food, have you?”
“I am trying to not take offense at that, Sam. It is not working.”
“I’ll offend all day if that’s what it takes.” Sam held out the rifle and said, “Hell, it’s nothing fancy. My boy’s got better sites on his gun, but it will put meat on your table if you use it correctly. You ever shoot anything before?”
“No.”
“Get up, put that cup down, and let me show you how this is done.” Sam demonstrated how to hold the weapon and aim down the sites at his target. He was in the middle of explaining the mechanics of the weapon when a flock of birds kicked up from the grass and Halladay blasted one of them from the sky.
The Sheriff watched the dead bird drop and said, “Okay, that was beginner’s luck, but don’t think the rest will be so easy.”
Halladay fired five more times in quick succession, littering the ground with feathers and carcasses. The two men stood in silence for a moment and Halladay said, “Please, go through the part about the front sites again, Sam.”
The sheriff tipped back his hat and smiled. “Weren’t no need to play me for a fool, Doc. Nice to see you still have your sense of humor.”
Halladay handed the weapon to him. “You have my assurance that I have never even touched a gun before.”
“Well it’s the damndest thing I’ve ever seen.” Sam removed his Colt Defender and aimed the weapon at one of the metal fence-posts lining the property. “Pistols are trickier than long guns.” Sam squeezed the trigger and the fence post vibrated and clanged dully. He gave Halladay a satisfied smile and handed him the gun. “Give it a try. Just look at the front site and do your best.”
The doctor raised the handgun, took a second to adjust his grip and closed one eye. “Aim down the barrel? Like so?” He squeezed the trigger and a fence post two lengths further down from the one Sam shot rang like a bell. “What a shame. I missed the one I was aiming for and accidentally hit one twice as far as yours.” Halladay twirled the gun in the palm of his hand to present it to the Sheriff.