“That’s why we have the pistol,” said Bird.
They took the pistol out behind the building. A hundred or so feet away, there was a wagon. They flipped it over and set a milk bottle on it. They walked away until they were a distance they could be proud of.
“I would like never to shoot a man,” said Mary, “but I can shoot bottles for sport.”
“How many bullets do we have?”
“She said we could find more, if we looked.”
“All we found was buttons and a coat.”
“I think she meant… around.” Mary pointed to the backs of the adjacent buildings. She swept her hand from left to right.
“She said to stay hidden.”
“I think we’re meant to sneak,” said Mary.
Bird pulled the hammer back on the pistol. The pistol was heavy enough to make him feel off balance, as if he were listing in its direction and would topple over without serious concentration when he fired. He held up the gun and exhaled. He squeezed the trigger and the gun flew from his hand. The floor of the alley coughed dirt several feet to the left of the wagon.
“You are our protection?” said Mary.
“It’s not easy,” said Bird.
Mary took the pistol and fired without much hesitation. She splintered the wagon a few inches from the base of the jar.
“We cannot shoot,” said Mary. “But I’m better.”
“We have to practice,” said Bird.
“You can practice,” said Mary, “once you’ve found more bullets.”
Mary made bread and Bird caught and killed a chicken. They kept quiet and did not explore much outside of the building with the kitchen and the bedrooms and the storeroom — and no one else, if they were around, made themselves known. There was butter in the storeroom, for the bread, and lard to cook the chicken in. They salted everything heavily. They found wine under the counter and tried it and did not like it. There was a fireplace near the base of the stairs and they made a small fire, more for entertainment than out of necessity. They did not sleep well. They made pallets on the floor near the fire with the blankets from upstairs and the clothes from the trunks. It went unsaid but understood that upstairs would not have been a comfortable place for either of them to spend the night.
Bird kept the gun near his pillow. He watched the fire in its metal. He had not wanted to become a gunfighter but it seemed like he was going to have to become a gunfighter. Mary did not have the follow-through for it, even if she was a better shot.
“Please stop staring at the gun,” said Mary.
“I’m thinking,” said Bird.
“About the gun?” said Mary.
“About having to use the gun some day.”
“It is thinking like that that will make it so,” said Mary.
“That’s foolish,” said Bird.
“You are an orphan who doesn’t have the capacity for reason or high thinking. In his whole life my father never once drew his gun.”
“And he was murdered,” said Bird.
“You’re frightening me and making me feel alone,” said Mary. “You are supposed to be my little brother.”
“I am not little.”
“You are a cripple.”
“I’m not a cripple.”
“I do not want our friendship to go on like this. You need to think of something else to talk about and think about other than guns and killing and dying. I won’t have any more of it.”
“You sound like Martha used to sound,” said Bird.
They were silent for some time. Mary might have slept. Finally, Bird said, “I am glad you’re here.”
Mary did not respond, but she shifted, eyes closed, to face either him or the fire.
In the morning, they were friendly again. They all but finished the bread, then gathered small rocks from behind the building. They sat, leaned against the building, and took turns trying to throw the rocks into a bowl they had set a few feet away from them.
At first, neither could do any more than hit the side of the bowl and scoot it an inch or so in either direction. After some time, they started landing the rocks in its center. Bird landed four in a row then turned to Mary and said, “I would like to go into the other houses and find bullets for the gun.”
“It makes no difference to me,” she said, “but it is not a path I would pursue.”
“I don’t know what we’re to do here,” said Bird.
“We can do anything we like,” said Mary. “We are on our own now.”
“I don’t know what that means,” said Bird.
“It does not mean anything,” said Mary. She tossed her last rock at the bowl and it ricocheted off the side.
“I have a scared feeling,” said Bird, “and I cannot get rid of it.”
Martha watched the killer make a modest camp. From a low hill, she could make out his shadow and then, with the light of his fire, his face and the baby in his arms. He held the baby’s face beneath his jacket, and he rocked it for several minutes. Then he set it to sleep on a pile. She watched him pick at the fire and set his heels by its outer coals. She worried that he would look up toward the night sky and see her outline on the horizon, or that he would be able to hear her breath working its way down the hill and into the branches of the trees above him. She seemed to be breathing abnormally. Snorting like a beast. Heaving like her father in the throes of a coughing fit.
The killer did not sleep, but picked at the fire whenever his head began to drop, or wandered the small circle of his camp. He did not smoke. He did not sing or talk to himself. He was still up until the moments bordering sleep, and then he moved just enough to keep it from overtaking him. Or so it seemed from her vantage. She studied him and tried to know him well enough to make a plan. He was like a fox in its den, or a snake in its pit. She wished she was truly a sharpshooter, able to pick him off safely from a distance. She did not think she could surprise him. She was not a faster draw. If it came to a fight, she would not be victorious. There was a chance she could outride him, seeing as she was only one, and he and the child were two. She slid herself back down the hill and out of view. Her horse was tied up, shadowed by a cluster of thin trees, but still visible if one were to happen upon them. She made herself flat against the dark hill.
During the night, birds settled on either side of her and picked at the hill for insects or seed. She was still and they moved over her and around her indifferently. They were focused on their task. They squeaked, but seemed to communicate nothing. She felt pity for them that they had no higher calling. But there was something simple and direct about the way they lived, and that was admirable. She turned over and crawled a few feet on her belly, scattering the birds. She pointed her right elbow into the dirt and positioned the rifle against her upturned palm and its corresponding collar pocket. She fired and hit the dirt between the fire and the man. He was up then and headed for cover, but she managed two more shots that sent him sliding into the dirt. She was astonished and proud. Each shot had felt less natural than the previous and she had become convinced she was incorrect in her decision to open fire from a distance, rather than to overtake him on the path. But it had worked. There it was. He was slain.
She hurried down the hill, leaving the gelding tied on its opposite side, along with her things. She came upon the body and fired several more shots into its hulk, splitting his leathers and spitting blood onto her leggings and thin-soled shoes. She winced. The baby was screaming unlike any child she had heard before. She lifted it and tried to settle it by whispering sweet things and bouncing it, but nothing worked. She dug through the killer’s belongings and could not find much of use. The food was far from edible and his weapons or tools were crude and few. She took a blanket for the baby and investigated the corpse’s pockets. Again, nothing.